Dora Sigerson Shorter – Darkling, I Listen

The Little Sister by Dora Sigerson Shorter

The wind knocks at the window,
⁠And my heart is full of fear.
For I know when it is calling
⁠That some evil thing is near.

It whispers in the chimney,
⁠And I strike the log to name,
Lest it come down and take me
⁠To the land that hath no name.

For once I had a sister,
⁠Who now am left alone,
And here we sat together,
⁠When the wind did sigh and moan«.

There came a gentle knocking
⁠Quick and sudden at the door.
And my sister hushed my terror.
⁠Saying, “’Tis the wind, a-stór!”

She took my arms from round her,
⁠She kissed me, cheek and chin,
But I cried, “Oh, little sister.
⁠Do not let the robber in!”

She rose up from me laughing,
⁠But her face was strange and white.
And she opened wide the window,
⁠Looking long into the night.
And I said, “Oh, little sister,
There is on your cheek a tear!”
“’Tis but the rain,” she whispered;
But my heart was full of fear.

And I said, “Oh, little sister.
There’s a hand upon the door.”
Soft she chid me from my crying,
Saying, “’Tis the wind, a-stór.”

And turning from me smiling.
She took down the bar and chain,
But her cheek was like the lily
As she went into the rain.

And I said, “Oh, little sister,
Will you then return no more?”
But I only heard the pushing
Of the wind upon the door.

Long I cried, “Oh, little sister.
Will you soon come back again?”
But I only heard the beating
Of the storm upon the pane.

Now my mother sits in sorrow,
Weeping all the livelong day;
And I think she dreads the robber
Who did take her child away.

So I put up bar and shutter
When the wind goes howling by.
For I know when it comes knocking
That some evil thing is nigh.

Haunted by Dora Sigerson Shorter

How restless are the dead whose silent feet will stray
In to our lone retreat or solitary way;
Within the dew-wet wood or sun-enchanted lane
We meet them face to face, we hear them speak again.

How powerful are the dead whose voices ever speak,
So softly by our side in accents faint and weak:
They bid us go or stay, or do, or leave undone,
We hear them breathe our name ere dawn has well begun.

How silent are the dead when come accusing fears
To chide our aching hearts, to fill our days with tears:
They hush not now our grief, nor heed us as we plead
For some unspoken word, or some ungentle deed.

Beside the golden fire they take the empty chair
They tread from room to room, they pass from stair to stair,
And when comes tranquil night to call to us to sleep
Within our pleasant dreams the restless dead will creep.

How pitiless the dead who come in dearest guise
And most belovéd ways before our wistful eyes;
To cry to us lost words that we remembered not,
To act again each scene that we had half forgot.

And should we seek to ease our heart with some caress
How timidly they fly and leave us loneliness:
How fugitive the dead who at our stricken call
Hide in the chilly tomb and answer not at all.

The Fair Little Maiden by Dora Sigerson Shorter

“There is one at the door, Wolfe O’Driscoll,
At the door, who bids you to come!”
“Who is he that wakes me in the darkness,
Calling when all the world is dumb?”

“Six horses has he to his carriage.
Six horses blacker than the night,
And their twelve red eyes in the shadows—
Twelve lamps he carries for his light;

“His coach is a herse black and mouldy,
Within a coffin open wide:
He asks for your soul, Wolfe O’Driscoll,
Who doth call at the door outside.”

“Who let him thro’ the gates of my gardens,
Where stronger bolts have never been?”
“The father of the fair little maiden
You drove to her grave deep and green.”

“And who let him pass through the courtyard.
Loosening the bar and the chain?”
“Who but the brother of the maiden
Who lies in the cold and the rain!”

“Then who drew the bolts at the portal
And into my house bade him go?”
“The mother of the poor young maiden
Who lies in her youth all so low.”
“Who stands, that he dare not enter.
The door of my chamber, between?”
“O, the ghost of the fair little maiden
Who lies in the churchyard green.”