Fannie Stearns Davis
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.