GRAY.
In the dead calm of night, when the 'stars are all shining,
The deep, silent shadows lie cold o'er my head,
And the wind, like a sad spirit, round the house pining,
Calls up from their quiet the tones of the dead.
The deep, silent shadows lie cold o'er my head,
And the wind, like a sad spirit, round the house pining,
Calls up from their quiet the tones of the dead.
Almost I can see them who rustle the curtain,
And flit past my cheek like a cold waft of air;
I hear their faint sighs and their footsteps uncertain,
I need not a vision to know they are there.
And flit past my cheek like a cold waft of air;
I hear their faint sighs and their footsteps uncertain,
I need not a vision to know they are there.
They call from the past all its bitterest warnings,
And trail the gray ghosts through my shuddering soul,
The nights of lone grief and the desolate mornings,
The long days of anguish that mocked my control.
And trail the gray ghosts through my shuddering soul,
The nights of lone grief and the desolate mornings,
The long days of anguish that mocked my control.
Then comes the still angel who watches me ever,
And numbers the tears of my sleepless despair,
And numbers the tears of my sleepless despair,
