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 bramble bridge we parted at last year.

At first I deemed her but a mist that faltered in that place,

An autumn mist beneath the trees the moon's thin beams did lace,

Until I neared and in the moon beheld her face to face.

The crinkle of the summer heat above the drouth-burnt leas;

The shimmer of the thistle-drift adown the silences;

The gliding of the fairy-fire between the swamp and trees:

All qualified her presence as a sorrow may a dream—

The vague suggestion of a self; the glimmer of a gleam;

The actual and unreal of the things that are and seem.

Where once she came with welcome and glad eyes, all loving-wise,

She passed, and gave no greeting that my heart could 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.