Streaming beneath the eaves, the sunset light
Turns the white walls and ceilings to pure gold,
And gold the quilt and pillows on the old
Four-poster bed—all day a cold drift-white—
As if in a gold casket glistering bright
The gleam of winter sunshine sought to hold
The sleeping child safe from the dark and cold
And creeping shadows of the coming night.
Slowly it fades, and, stealing through the gloom,
Home-coming shadows throng the quiet room,
Grey ghosts that move unrustling without breath
To their familiar rest, and closelier creep
About the little dreamless child asleep
Upon the bed of bridal, birth, and death.