The Return

WHO knocks at the door so late, so late—Who knocks so late at the door?Is it one who comes as a stranger comes,Or one who has knocked before?Is it one who stays with intent to bless,Or one who stands to implore?

My days have been as the years, she said,And my heart, my heart is sore;Love looked in my face for a moment's spaceOne happy spring of yore—Looked in my face with a wistful grace;And left me to grieve evermore!

Through all the days the door stood wide,For hope had breathed a vowThat love should ne'er be kept outside.The years were long and hope hath died;The door at last is barred and fast—Why comes this knocking now?

Yet woe the waiting heart, she said,And the heart it waiteth for!And woe the truth and wasted youthThat nothing shall restore!The faith that's fled, the hope that's dead,The dreams that come no more.

Who knocks at the gate—so late, so late?Thou foolish heart, be still!What is 't to thee if love or hateKnocks in the midnight chill?Art thou, poor heart, compassionate?Is love so hard to kill?

Ah me! the night is cold, she said;Would I might all forget;But memory lives when hope is dead,And pity heals regret;As light still lingers overheadWhen sun and moon are set.