University of Virginia Library

A GUARDIAN ANGEL.

You say that nobody has ever seen
A ghost, Mamma? I think that you are right.
People who die, as little Maudie died,
And dwell in Heaven and play on golden harps,
And float along with beautiful white wings,
Why should they ever ask to visit earth,
Even if God would let them? I believe
They do not come—except as Maudie comes,
Not seen, not heard, but somehow standing near
My bedside, on the nights of loneliest days,
When I have missed her, ah, so drearily!—
Remembering her glossy curls, her smile,
Her pretty ways, her cunning, gentle talk,
And how her warm, pink arms would clasp my neck
For good-night kisses. Often I awake
And know, Mamma, that she is with me. Morning
Has not yet broken, and the room is dark
And very still. I listen for the sound
Of tiny feet upon the floor—the same
Whose steps made merry patterings long ago,
But stir not under those blue myrtles, now,
That tremble on her grave. I listen,
But there is silence only. Then I say
Softly, below my breath: “She is not here;
She cannot come; she is away with God.”
And yet I listen, listen, till at last,
Longing to have her with me, in a voice
A little louder than before, I whisper:
“O Maudie, darling Maudie, are you there?”
And then, it seems, a murmured answer comes,
Quite low and tremulous and musical,
As if an older, wiser Maudie spoke
Out from the shadows: “I am here; I watch,
When you are sleeping, always by your bed.
I love you, I remember you; I am
Your Maudie, just as in the other days.”
O very sweet it is to hear those words,
And I am sure I do not fancy them,
Lying awake and shedding thankful tears,
And in the solemn darkness not afraid.