Returning. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

    I years had been from home,
    And now, before the door,
    I dared not open, lest a face
    I never saw before

    Stare vacant into mine
    And ask my business there.
    My business, — just a life I left,
    Was such still dwelling there?

    I fumbled at my nerve,
    I scanned the windows near;
    The silence like an ocean rolled,
    And broke against my ear.

    I laughed a wooden laugh
    That I could fear a door,
    Who danger and the dead had faced,
    But never quaked before.

    I fitted to the latch
    My hand, with trembling care,
    Lest back the awful door should spring,
    And leave me standing there.

    I moved my fingers off
    As cautiously as glass,
    And held my ears, and like a thief
    Fled gasping from the house.