Her flitting form is slim and pale

As beechen stems at night,

Her hair is dark as barren trees

Against the moon's pale light.

Her dreadful seeking hands are curved

Like chestnut buds in spring;

Against her bosom close she holds

A dove with frightened wing.

We may not see her as she goes

Over the leaf-strewn moss;

But see the russet leaves are stirred,

Feel some strange sense of loss.

We cannot see her cold sad eyes

Filled with a craving pain—

We only hear upon the leaves

Patter of April rain.