Poems (Sharpless)/The Step on the Stair

by Frances M. Sharpless

THE STEP ON THE STAIR

A step on the stair!—it thrilleth
 My soul to the very core;
Oh God! I know that step so well,
 Yet heard it ne'er before!

I know it, for oft in my childhood
 I heard the ghastly tale,
And my blood ran slow, and cold and thick,
 And my rosy cheek grew pale.

And when slumber had left my pillow,
 In fancy spurred by fright,
I've heard the sound of its stealthy step
 In the midmost noon of night.

It comes from the room whose windows
 In the sunlight never shine,
And across whose casements and darkened door
 Is the spider's filmy line.

Long ago, in the bright mid-summer,
 There dwelt a lady fair;
Like a beam of the summer's golden sun
 She seemed, in her beauty rare.

The outcast heart beneath her smile
 Grew gentle towards its race,
The saddest eyes forgot to weep,
 'Neath the sweet joy of her face.

The crossest hound that tore his keeper, still
 Grew mild beneath her hand;
So like a smile from God she seemed,
 To shine thro' all the land.

But dark and crafty and cold to her
 Grew the face of her wedded lord,
And jealousy crept around his heart
 And whispered a poisonous word.

And in its venom, her beauty
 Seemed full of lures and guiles;
Her very artlessness to him
 Looked like the wanton's wiles.

So, once, in the quiet sunshine,
 Forth from that dim old room,
A voice of mortal agony
 Rang thro' the hush of noon.

A cry—and then all was silent;
 And the bees were humming still;
And the distant dash of the fall was heard,
 And the drone of the olden mill.

But a spell of terror grew dark and close,
 Over that chamber dim,
And a nameless curse on the Master fell,
 That drove all men from him.

The lady, alas! was no more seen,
 In her beauty young and fair;
But ever at dead of night comes still
 A cry—and that step on the stair.