Classic Poem

A day like this
I know if she is let,
My Love is turning back
From death—
In this September footfall of the rain
We loved, I seem to hear
Her light foot come again
Up to my open door—
About her form
The drifting yellow leaves
Blown as a merry shroud,
That rustles as she flits beneath old trees
She left.
She is so near
A day like this—
I feel her dreams
Turn home to me,
And all the crowns and harps are vain
To match the whisper of the rain
Upon the leaves—
Up that dear path that leads her to an open door—
Where with arms vague outstretched, I stand
To welcome her—and draw her in once more—
My ghost of Autumn yesterdays.