A LITTLE hand is knocking at my heart,
And I have closed the door.
“I pray thee, for the love of God, depart:
Thou shalt come in no more.”

“Open, for I am weary of the way.
The night is very black.
I have been wandering many a night and day.
Open. I have come back.”

The little hand is knocking patiently;
I listen, dumb with pain.
“Wilt thou not open, any more to me?
I have come back again.”

“I will not open any more. Depart.
I, that once lived, am dead.”
The hand that had been knocking at my heart
Was still. “And I?” she said.

There is no sound, save in the winter air,
The sound of wind and rain.
All that I loved in all the world stands there,
And will not knock again.