If. If your hand came, dead in the dead of night, And touched my forehead, waking me to see. You standing dead there in the dead of night, I who fear ghosts would have no fear at all. I'd greet you with the tenderest hello. And you would smile, though sad. And then you'd go. There would be nothing deathly in your death. For your love always was the laughing sort. That quickened life and would not die with death. And when you'd gone, I would not want to weep -- That loving gaiety would still be there. Filling with its own peace the quickened air.
Norman MacCaigAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: scottish
- Born: November 14, 1910
- Died: January 23, 1996
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