Classic Poem

After wet twilights, when the rain is done,
I think they walk these ways that knew their feet,
And tread these sunken pavements, one by one,
Keen for old Summers that were wild and sweet;
Where rainy lilacs blow against the dark,
And grasses bend beneath the weight they bear,
The night grows troubled, and we still may mark
Their ghostly heart-break on the tender air.

Be still! We cannot know what trysts they keep,
What eager hands reach vainly for a door,
Remembered since they folded them in sleep,--
Frail hands that lift like lilacs, evermore,
And lean along the darkness, pale and still,
To touch a window or a crumbling sill.