Now when I stand upon the stair alone
And listen, I can hear a quiet stir
Like even breathing, or a whispered drone,
A sound that any little noise would blur.
I know that there is something in this hall,
That climbs the waiting stairs and then goes down
On silent feet, or clings hard to the wall,
As though it loved the old and faded brown.
Sometimes I feel that I, myself, can fly
If I stand very still upon the stair,
Believing that there is no reason why
I cannot trust my body to the air. . . .
Do other children find their stairs so near
To things that grown-ups say cannot be here?