I am almost afraid of the wind out there.
The dead leaves skip on the porches bare,
The windows clatter and whine.
I sit here in the quiet house low-lit.
With the clock that ticks and the books that stand.
Wise and silent, on every hand.
I am almost afraid; though I know the night
Lets no ghosts walk in the warm lamplight.
Yet ghosts there are; and they blow, they blow,
Out in the wind and the scattering snow.
When I open the windows and go to bed,
Will the ghosts come In and stand at my head?
Last night I dreamed they came back again.
I heard them talking; I saw them plain.
They hugged me and held me and loved me; spoke
Of happy doings and friendly folk.
They seemed to have journeyed a week away,
But now they were ready and glad to stay.
But, oh, if they came on the wind to-night
Could I bear their faces, their garments white
Blown in the dark around my lonely bed?
Oh, could I forgive them for being dead?
I am almost afraid of the wind. My shame!
That I would not be glad if my dear ones came!
-Fannie Stearns Davis
Truth in our hearts. Strength in our hands. Consistency in our tongues.
Beauty is not just all around us, but within us....
"I found it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay"(Gandalf)