HARK !
My little Charles is afraid of the dark ; Stares at the window, stiff and stark ; Sits up in bed, with tousled head, White as chalk, scarce able to talk :
" Listen ! . . ." he says. "Hark I . . ."
My dear, my dear, my dear, my dear!
See, you- are safe—just us!
It's only the' wind in the keyhole ; It's only a nibbling mouse ; It's only the creak of an empty stair ; And the moon looking into the house ; It's only a moth on the ceiling ; A little screech owl in the wood: There's nothing behind that door ajar ; Stop breathing as long as you could
You still wouldn't hear what you think you hear ;
There's nothing to fear in what you fear, Lying alone in the dark!
Poor little Charles—he weeps at me ; Begs and prays he may sleep with me ; Tear-stained cheeks, wild eyes I see ; And a silence falls in the vacancy . . .
" Listen! . ." he says. "Hark ! . ."
WALTER DB LA MARE.
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