On days when maids go laughing through the rooms To sudsy revels with their whirling brooms, Behind closed doors in my quaint house I must Perform one sacred rite. It is to dust The books. Though I am gentle, the dear ghosts Haunting their pages wake, and tranquil hosts Of memory become sad shapes that dart Shafts of old pain deep in my quiet heart. "From Edward, happy years to sweetest Kate." Oh long the two have had them! This pale date Was traced before my birth. "To little Fred From Daddy." God dares not allow the dead To know how yellowed leaves make loved eyes' brim Or they would dwell less peacefully with Him. I smile . . . There will be no one, soon, to look, Anguished, at faded writing in a book. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SEVEN TWILIGHTS: 6 by CONRAD AIKEN THE FLOWER BOAT by ROBERT FROST |