When he comes home at twilight,
  I hear, above the beat
Of hoof and wheel on stone and steel,
  His footfall in the street.

I see, though daylight darkened
  And faded long before,
Across the gloom that fills my room
  His dear face at the door.

When he comes in at twilight,
  The world that seemed so vast,
So broad outside, and wild and wide,
  Shrinks very small at last,

Shuts very safe and quiet
  From dangers and alarms—
A happy space, a sheltered place,
  The circle of his arms!


From Silver Saturday (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1937)
This poem is in the public domain.