by Lizette Woodworth Reese

Oh, when the ghosts go by,  
Under the empty trees,  
Here in my house I sit and cry,  
My head upon my knees!

Innumerable, white,  
Like mist they fill the square;  
The bolt is drawn, the latch made tight,  
The shutter barréd there.

There walks one small and glad,  
New to the churchyard clod;  
My little lad, my little lad,  
A single year with God!

I sit and hide my head  
Until they all are past,  
Under the empty trees the dead
That go full soft and fast.

Up to my chamber dim,  
Back to my bed I plod;  
Oh, would I were a ghost with him,  
And faring back to God!

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