Presentiment

WITH saintly grace and reverent tread

    She walked among the graves with me;

    Her every footfall seemed to be

A benediction on the dead.

The guardian spirit of the place     

    She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn,

    Surprised by the untimely morn

She made with her resplendent face.

Moved by some waywardness of will,

    Three paces from the path apart       

    She stepped and stood—my prescient heart

Was stricken with a passing chill.

My child-lore of the years agone

    Remembering, I smiled and thought,

    “Who shudders suddenly at naught,       

His grave is being trod upon.”

But now I know that it was more

    Than idle fancy. O, my sweet,

    I did not know such little feet

Could make a buried heart so sore!