In The Dark.
A poem by James Whitcomb Riley
O in the depths of midnightWhat fancies haunt the brain!
When even the sigh of the sleeper
Sounds like a sob of pain.
A sense of awe and of wonder
I may never well define, -
For the thoughts that come in the shadows
Never come in the shine.
The old clock down in the parlor
Like a sleepless mourner grieves,
And the seconds drip in the silence
As the rain drips from the eaves.
And I think of the hands that signal
The hours there in the gloom,
And wonder what angel watchers
Wait in the darkened room.
And I think of the smiling faces
That used to watch and wait,
Till the click of the clock was answered
By the click of the opening gate. -
They are not there now in the evening -
Morning or noon - not there;
Yet I know that they keep their vigil,
And wait for me Somewhere.