Miriam Allen deFord

From “Under the Cliff”

WILL it be like this?—

Climbing the hill at midnight,

While the rain seeps from the plumaged pepper-trees,

And the damp air is rank with eucalyptus;

And our little house black and untenanted,

Soundless, where your hurrying footsteps

Used to run to the door to greet me;

Black, and cold, and I alone there?

Will that be the way of it,

On that silent day when I shall begin waiting

For Death to release me to you?