In through the porch and up the silent stair;

Little is changed, I know so well the ways;–

Here, the dead came to meet me; it was there

The dream was dreamed in unforgotten days.

But who is this that hurries on before,

A flitting shade the brooding shades among?–

She turned,–I saw her face,–O God, it wore

The face I used to wear when I was young!

I thought my spirit and my heart were tamed

To deadness; dead the pangs that agonise.

The old grief springs to choke me,–I am shamed

Before that little ghost with eager eyes.

O turn away, let her not see, not know!

How should she bear it, how should understand?

O hasten down the stairway, haste and go,

And leave her dreaming in the silent land.