WHEN the night fire flares up red Into the chimney wide, And I am s'posed to be in bed, I like to slip and hide Behind the back of father's chair And, when they quite forget I'm there, I like to think Of how the night is black as ink Outside! The poplar trees down in the park, All day so stiff with pride, Stand shivering inside the dark Quite limp and terrified— I'd like to call out "Boo!" beneath, And listen to their chatt'ry teeth, But—I don't know— To do it I should have to go Outside! Our black cat with her tail all still Is watching, yellow-eyed, Something beyond the window-sill That no one else has spied. Soon she will go with padding feet Out through the door and down the street. I think she knows What she won't tell—except to those Outside! Of course there aren't witches now (What was that voice that cried?) I don't mind witches anyhow (Was that the wind that sighed?) For two brass pins I'd run around The house and through the croquet ground— I'm brave myself— But what if I should scare some elf Outside? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GHOSTS OF A LUNATIC ASYLUM by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET REGARDING CHAINSAWS by HAYDEN CARRUTH SPRING DAY: NIGHT AND SLEEP by AMY LOWELL BALLROOM DARK by CLARENCE MAJOR A LITTLE GIRL'S PRAYER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD DEAF HOUSE AGENT by KATHERINE MANSFIELD THE AWAKENING RIVER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD |