I lose your eyes,
I'll haunt familiar places. I'll not keep
Tryst in the skies.
I'll haunt the whispering elms that found us true,
The old grass-grown lane.
Look for me there, lest I should look for you,
And look in vain.
There, as of old, under the dreaming moon,
A phantom throng
Floats through the fern, to a ghostly morrice tune,