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.