Classic Poem

I am an old woman, comfortable, calm and wise
Often I see the spirits of the dead with my own eyes.
They come into my house. I am no more afraid
Than of the coal-scuttle or my breakfast newly laid.
One night over the fields the wind blew wild,
And I thought I heard in it the ravaging voice of a child.
I thought I heard in it, sweeping the cold lands,
The voice of a child who suddenly misses those only hands
That understood to make him safe, usual, and warm.
It cried unceasingly until I knew it was not the voice of the storm.
I tried to fall asleep; but how could I sleep,
And hear that creature in despair continually weep?
Then to the grown spirits imploringly I said:
" Friends, give me here that new spirit who is lately dead,
Who will not enter your new world of light
Because he misses the hands of his mother this first night,
And she, poor soul, lies weeping tear on tear
And cannot pierce the night with love. But I hear.
Give me her wandering child!" Then, as I lay in bed,
Against my breast I felt a small and blunt-nosed head,
A cold sob-quivering body growing calm
And toes like round cold buds that warmed inside my palm.
Soon in the hushing night and darkness deep,
That comforted safe spirit sighed and fell asleep,
And I slept too, most satisfied, until
I woke and saw to-morrow's dawn, everywhere cold and still.
But out of my white bed where morning shone
Out of my arms, away, the new-born spirit was gone.