Poem By Edith Nesbit

I WENT back to our home to-day
That still its robe of roses wore;
My feet took the old easy way,
And led me to our door.

And you are gone and never more
Those little feet of yours will come
To meet me at the open door,
The threshold of our home.

The door unlatched did not protest:
I entered, and the silence drew
My steps towards the little nest
That once I shared with you.

There lay your fan, your open book,
Your seam half-sewn, and I could see
The window whence you used to look--
Yes, once you looked--for me.

Print of your little head caressed
Our pillow still, and on the floor
Still lay, dropped there when last you dressed,
The scarf and rose you wore.

All should have spoken of you plain,
Yet, when I bade the silence tell
Of you, my bidding was in vain,
I could not break its spell.

The silence would not speak, my dear,
Till the last level light grew dim;
Then, in the twilight I could hear;
The silence spoke--of him.

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