With hazel eyes, and thick brown hair Brushed smoothly backward from the brow, Beside the table that but now, Save for the empty mugs, was bare. Upon it she had spread a sheet: And stood there, ironing a shirt, Her husband’s, as he played to her Her favourite tunes, so old and sweet. I watched her move with soundless stir; Then stand with listening eyes, and hold The iron near her glowing cheek, Lest it, too hot, should do some hurt, And she, so careful not to burn The well-darned shirt, so worn and old. Then, something seemed to make me turn To look on the old man again: And, as I looked, the playing stopped; And now I saw that he had dropped Into his brooding mood once more, With eyes again grown dull and weak. He seemed the oldest of old men Who grope through life with sight worn dim And, even as I looked at him, Too full of tender awe to speak, I knew once more the board was bare, With no young woman standing there With hazel eyes and thick, brown hair; And I, in vain, for her should seek, If I but sought this side death’s door. And so, at last, I rose, and took His hand: and as he clasped mine tight, I saw again that friendly look Fill his old weary eyes with light, And wish me, without words, good-night And in my heart, that look glowed bright Till I reached home across the moor. And, at the corner of the lane, Next night, I heard the old voice cry In greeting, as I struggled by, Head-down against the wind and rain. And so each night, until one day, His master chanced across my way: But, when I spoke of him, he said: Did I not know the man was dead, And had been dead a week or so? One morn he’d not turned up to work; And never having known him shirk; And hearing that he lived alone; He thought it best himself to go And see what ailed: and coming there, He found the old man in his chair, Stone-dead beside the cold hearthstone. It must be full a week, or more... Aye, just two weeks, come Saturday, He’d found him; but he must have died O’ernight--(the night I heard him play!) And they had found, dropt by his side, A broken flute upon the floor. Yet, every night, his greeting still At that same corner of the hill, Summer and Winter, wet or dry, ’Neath cloud, or moon, or cold starlight, Is waiting there to welcome me: And ever as I hurry by, The old voice sings out cheerily: "Good-night!" and yet again, "Good-night!" 1910-1911. LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED. DUKE STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND GREAT WINDMILL STREET, W.