Classic Poem

She has not left: I feel her presence more
Than when, of old, she ran across the floor
To kiss me welcome. Often in her chair
She rests, although I never catch her there;
And when the twilight comes, and I forget
The creeping dark that grows when day has set,
I all but find her in the evening gloom
Or think I hear her in the other room
And go to look: she's just been there, I know, —
My heart reports I was a step too slow!