In The Dark
by James Whitcomb Riley
In the depths of midnight,
what fancies haunt the brain…
when even the sigh of the sleeper
sounds like a sob of pain.
The old clock down in the parlor,
like a sleepless mourner grieves.
And the seconds drip into the silence,
as the rain drips from the eaves.
And I think of the hands there
that signal the hours in the gloom,
and wonder what angel watchers wait
in my 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, no!
Nor morning, nor noon, not there!
Yet I know that they are waiting…
waiting for me somewhere.