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.