The Child At The Gate

THE sunset was a sleepy gold, And stars were in the skies When down a weedy lane he strolled In vague and thoughtless wise. And then he saw it, near a wood, An old house, gabled brown, Like some old woman, in a hood, Looking toward the town. A child stood at its broken gate, Singing a childish song, And weeping softly as if Fate Had done her child's heart wrong. He spoke to her: —'Now tell me, dear, Why do you sing and weep?'— But she — she did not seem to hear, But stared as if asleep. Then suddenly she turned and fled As if with soul of fear. He followed; but the house looked dead, And empty many a year. The light was wan: the dying day Grew ghostly suddenly: And from the house he turned away, Wrapped in its mystery. They told him no one dwelt there now: It was a haunted place.— And then it came to him, somehow, The memory of a face. That child's — like hers, whose name was Joy — For whom his heart was fain: The face of her whom, when a boy, He played with in that lane.