You Are Not Here

In your garden here I rest.The glow is fading from the West;Eerie shadows creep and fallAnd stack their ghosts against the wall

The bat has left his sooty bedAnd swishy-swish sweeps overhead;While from the dusky bush-clad hillThere comes the plaint ‘whip-poor-will’.

The beetle droves from yonder post;The gnats collect in myriad host;And quietly through dewing grassThe homing toad goes hopping past.

A circled moon, an ominous sign,Climbs slowly above the forest line,And gives to twilight’s lingering lightShort respite from the darkening night.

So faintly now the thunder rolls;Black canopy the earth enfolds;And stiller than a lifeless formThere comes the calm before the storm.

Now softly whispering through the firThe dozing air begins to stir;The lightning-bug puts out his light,A portent of the torrent’s might.

The garden gate slams violently;A branch drops from the locust tree;The lightning rives the angry cloudAnd cloaks the earth in watery shroud.

When blows the thundering stormy windWithin home walls we refuge find;I’d give a kingdom if I mightTo have you here with me this night.

Musing, I scan the library shelf;Tagore reminds me of yourself;When you are home again once moreWe’ll read aloud beloved Tagore.

The stairs I climb so buoyantlyTomorrow you will climb with me;Within our room I see your faceAnd know you must be in this place.

I reach to take you by the hand.Near by my side, you seem to stand.This is your scarf—this is your blouseAnd yet you are not in this house.You are not here.