Yet walks she with the slow step of a mourner,
Nor hears my voice that calls.
So through my heart there winds a track of feeling,
A path of memory, that is all her own:
Whereto her phantom beauty ever stealing
Haunts the sad spot alone.
About her steps the trunks are bare, the branches
Drip heavy tears upon her downcast head;
And bleed unseen wounds that no sun staunches,
For the year’s sun is dead.