Post
by Laurie Strode » Thu Oct 18, 2007 3:56 pm
(I'm working on a few originals here, but they need more fine-tuning before I have the nerve to post them along with the experts'...)
A MIDNIGHT VISITOR
After all the house is dark,
And the last soft step is still,
And the elm-bough's clear-cut shadow
Flickers on the window sillâ€â€
When the village lights are out,
And the watch-dogs all asleep,
And the misty silver radiance
Makes the shade look black and deepâ€â€
When, so silent is the night,
Not a dead leaf dares to fall,
And I only hear the death-watch
Ticking, ticking in the wallâ€â€
When no hidden mouse dares gnaw
At the silence dead and dumb,
And the very air seems waiting
For a Something that should comeâ€â€
Suddenly, there stands my guest,
Whence he came I cannot see;
Not a door has swung before him,
Not a hand touched latch or key,
Not a rustle stirred the air;
Yet he stands there, brave and mute,
In his eyes a look of greeting,
In his hand an old-time flute.
Then, with all the courtly grace
Of the old Colonial school,
From the curtain-shadowed corner
Forth he draws a three-legged stoolâ€â€
(Ah, it was not there before!
Search as closely as I may,
I can never, never find it
When I look for it by day!)
Places it beside my bed,
And while silently I gaze
Spell-bound by his mystic presence,
Seats himself thereon and plays.
Gracious, stately, grave and tall,
Always dressed from crown to toe
In the quaint elaborate fashion
Of a hundred years ago.
Doublet, small-clothes, silk-clocked hose;
Wears my midnight melodist,
Snowy ruffles in his bosom,
Snowy ruffles at his wrist.
Silver buckle at his knee,
Silver buckle on his shoe;
Powdered hair smoothed back and plaited
In a stiff old-fashioned queue.
If I stir he vanishes;
If I speak he flits away;
If I lie in utter silence,
He will sit for hours and play;
Play old wailing minor airs,
Melancholy, wild and slow,
Such, mayhap, as pleased the maidens
Of a hundred years ago.
All in vain I wait to hear
Ghostly histories of wrong
Unconfessed and unforgiven,
Unavenged and suffered long;
Not a story does he tell,
Not a single word he saysâ€â€
Only sits and gazes at me
Steadily, and plays and plays.
Who is he, my midnight guest?
Wherefore does he haunt me so;
Coming from the misty shadows
Of a hundred years ago?
--Elizabeth Akers Allen