While bare black night through empty casements staring
Waits to storm the wainscot till the fire lies dead,
Fast along the snowbound waste little feet are faring--
Hush and listen--listen--but never turn your head.

Leave the door upon the latch--she could never reach it--
You would hear her crying, crying there till break of day,
Out on the cold moor 'mid the snows that bleach it,
Weeping as once in the long years past away.

Lean deeper in the settle-corner lest she find you--
Find and grow fearsome, too afraid to stay:
Do you hear the hinge of the oaken press behind you?
There all her toys were kept, there she used to play.

Do you hear the light, light foot, the faint sweet laughter
Happy stir and murmur of a child that plays:
Slowly the darkness creeps up from floor to rafter,
Slowly the fallen snow covers all the ways.

Falls as it once fell on a tide past over,
Golden the hearth glowed then, bright the windows shone;
And still, she comes through the sullen drifts above her
Home to the cold hearth though all the lights are gone.

Far or near no one knew--none would now remember
Where she wandered no one knew--none will ever know;
Somewhere Spring must give her flowers, somewhere white December
Calls her from the moorland to her playthings through the snow.