Iv. _The Ghost._

Just where the field becomes the wood I thought I saw again Her old remembered face--made grey As it had known the rain.

The trees grow thickly there; no place Has half so many trees; And hunted things elude one there Like ancient memories.

The path itself is hard to find, And slopes up suddenly; --In the old days it was a path None knew so well as we.

The path slopes upward, till it leaves The great trees far behind; --I met her once where the slender birch Grow up to meet the wind.

Where the poplars quiver endlessly And the falling leaves are grey, I saw her come, and I was glad That she had learned the way.

She paused a moment where the path Grew sunlighted and broad; Within her hair slept all the gold Of all the golden-rod.

And then the wood closed in on her. And my hand found her hand; She had no words to say, yet I Was quick to understand.

I dared to look in her two eyes; They too, I thought, were grey: But no sun shone, and all around Great, quiet shadows lay.

Yet, as I looked, I surely knew That they knew nought of tears,-- But this was very long ago, --A year, perhaps ten years.

All this was long ago. Today, Her hand met not with mine; And where the pathway widened out I saw no gold hair shine.

I had a weary, fruitless search, --I think that her wan face Was but the face of one asleep Who dreams she knew this place.