And I found only dregs as I gasped on the brink.
Long I stood, and I gazed like one in a trance,
And I shuddered as toward me the specter advanced;
Did the chill of her hand then my heart penetrate?
Dead, it seemed, as I leaned on the old garden gate.
Where the sweet-william bloomed on the old fashioned walk,
Towered and flourished the rank mullein stalk,
Where the raspberry vines purpled over the fence,
The iron weed stood just as proud as a prince;
But where was the summer-house under whose shade