AND so it shall be, when you come to die, And that strange guest, for whom no watchdogs bark, Talks downstairs with our elders, though you cry At going out from me into the dark,— When you must leave the attic where we play,— This wide clear room that on the garden looks,— Where we have loved each other all the day And had our games, our picnics, and our books,— When some old voice—which long ago was known, Telling our names, some pleasant voice and mild, And bidding us be friends—shall call you down, Then most of all shall you be found a child, Shrink, cry, yet bravely (by what longings sped) Climb slowly down those last dark stairs to bed. |