It was beneath a waning moon when all
the woods were sear,
And winds made eddies of the leaves that
whispered far and near,
I met her on the old mill-bridge we parted
at last year.
At first I deemed it but a mist that faltered
in that place,
An autumn mist beneath the trees that
sentineled the race;
Until I neared and in the moon beheld
her face to face.
The waver of the summer-heat upon the
drouth-dry leas;
The shimmer of the thistle-drift a down
the silences;
The gliding of the fairy-fire between
the swamp and trees;
They qualified her presence as a sorrow may a dream-
The vague suggestion of a self; the glimmer
of a gleam;
The actual unreal of the things that only
seem.
Where once she came with welcome and glad
eyes all loving-wise,
She passed and gave no greeting that my
heart might recognize,
With far-set face unseeing and sad unremembering
eyes.
It was beneath a waning moon when woods
were bleak and sear,
And winds made whispers of the leaves
that eddied far and near,
I met her ghost upon the bridge we parted
at last year.