Page:Dora Sigerson Shorter - New Poems.djvu/49

 They hush not now our grief, nor heed us as we plead For some unspoken word, or some ungentle deed.

Beside the golden fire they take the empty chair They tread from room to room, they pass from stair to stair, And when comes tranquil night to call to us to sleep Within our pleasant dreams the restless dead will creep.

How pitiless the dead who come in dearest guise And most beloved ways before our wistful eyes; To cry to us lost words that we remembered not, To act again each scene that we had half forgot.

And should we seek to ease our heart with some caress How timidly they fly and leave us loneliness: How fugitive the dead who at our stricken call Hide in the chilly tomb and answer not at all.