_The Child At The Gate_

The sunset was a sleepy gold, And stars were in the skies When down a weedy lane he strolled In vague and thoughtless wise.

And then he saw it, near a wood, An old house, gabled brown, Like some old woman, in a hood, Looking toward the town.

A child stood at its broken gate, Singing a childish song, And weeping softly as if Fate Had done her child's heart wrong.

He spoke to her:--"Now tell me, dear, Why do you sing and weep?"-- But she--she did not seem to hear, But stared as if asleep.

Then suddenly she turned and fled As if with soul of fear. He followed; but the house looked dead, And empty many a year.

The light was wan: the dying day Grew ghostly suddenly: And from the house he turned away, Wrapped in its mystery.

* * * *

They told him no one dwelt there now: It was a haunted place.-- And then it came to him, somehow, The memory of a face.

That child's--like hers, whose name was Joy-- For whom his heart was fain: The face of her whom, when a boy, He played with in that lane.