Page:Dora Sigerson Shorter - New Poems.djvu/48



restless are the dead whose silent feet will stray In to our lone retreat or solitary way; Within the dew-wet wood or sun-enchanted lane We meet them face to face, we hear them speak again.

How powerful are the dead whose voices ever speak, So softly by our side in accents faint and weak: They bid us go or stay, or do, or leave undone, We hear them breathe our name ere dawn has well begun.

How silent are the dead when come accusing fears To chide our aching hearts, to fill our days with tears: