The dark heads of flax
Whisper stealthily together,
The pools of golden leaves,
Crisp and golden on the pavement,
Rustle softly, rustle dimly
’Neath the white feet of a wind
That goes walking in the twilight . . .
She is young, and dewy-eyed,
And the daughter of a star . . .
But behind the orange curtains
Dance the sword-sharp golden shadows . . .
Ah, shadows of the flames
On my own hearth lit in welcome!
Quietly, I go in.
The old house knows my footsteps . . .
Chimney-nooks, little cupboards,
They love the hands that touch them.
There is nobody to see
(But the laughing rover wind)
How my own house bids me welcome
With sleepy warmth, with dim tears that have gathered
In the dying roses’ eyes, that had thought me far away.