Still, moon after moon from heaven above Shone on Mother and son, and made light of love. Her roses faded, her pretty brown hair Had sorrowful grey in it everywhere. And at last she died, and was laid to rest, Her tired hands crossed on her shrunken breast. And Sam, now lonely, lived on and on Till most of his workaday life seemed gone. Yet spring came again with its green and blue, And presently summer's wild roses too, Pinks, Sweet William, and sops-in-wine, Blackberry, lavender, eglantine. And when these had blossomed and gone their way, 'Twas apples, and daisies and Michaelmas Day-- Yes, spider-webs, dew, and haws in the may, And seraphs singing in Michaelmas Day. Sam worked all morning and _couldn't_ get rest For a kind of a feeling of grief in his breast. And yet, not grief, but something more Like the thought that what happens has happened before. He fed the chickens, he fed the sow, On a three-legged stool sate down to the cow, With a pail 'twixt his legs in the green in the meadow, Under the elm trees' lengthening shadow; And woke at last with a smile and a sigh To find he had milked his poor Jingo dry. As dusk set in, even the birds did seem To be calling and calling from out of a dream. He chopped up kindling, shut up his shed, In a bucket of well-water soused his head To freshen his eyes up a little and make The drowsy old wits of him wider awake. As neat as a womanless creature is able He swept up his hearthstone and laid the table. And then o'er his platter and mug, if you please, Sate gloomily gooming at loaf and cheese-- Gooming and gooming as if the mere sight Of his victuals could satisfy appetite! And the longer and longer he looked at them The slimmer slimmed upward his candle flame, Blue in the air. And when squeaked a mouse 'Twas loud as a trump in the hush of the house. Then, sudden, a soft little wind puffed by, 'Twixt the thick-thatched roof and the star-sown sky; And died. And then That deep, dead, wonderful silence again. Then--soft as a rattle a-counting her seeds In the midst of a tangle of withered-up weeds-- Came a faint, faint knocking, a rustle like silk, And a breath at the keyhole as soft as milk-- Still as the flit of a moth. And then ... That infinitesimal knocking again.