The Stranger

FOR years I left the door ajar,
For years the windows wide —
Always waiting your return,
I never went outside.
(Life give me patience,
God let me know
You will be coming back,
In a day or so.)

Many strangers passed me,
None came in —
Till once a very old man,
Shriveled up and thin,

Crept through the open door,
Wide night and day.
(I have never closed it
Since you went away.)

He is very quiet,
Sits very still,
Watching foolish shadows
Flicker on the sill.

Or holds a yellowed hour glass
In his long gray hands,
Watching the slowness,
The sliding of the sands.

He never spoke a word to me,
I never asked his name,
But I am not so lonely
Since the old man came.

. . . There’s a queer dark coming,
Like the shadow of a nun,
Like a great wing slipping
Down across the sun. . . .

The old man is groping
In my farthest room,
I must go and tell him
That the dark comes soon.

Lest he be frightened
I shall make a light,
Set it in the window,
Pretending this is night.
(For fear that you should pause here,
And then go on,
Seeing the darkness,
Thinking I had gone.)

. . . But what is the old man doing,
His sandaled feet slow moving
Across my sun-warped floors?

O God in Heaven, stop him!
He is shutting all the windows!
He is barring all the doors!
He is shutting all the windows . . .
He is barring all the doors. . . .