"The third day past came darkly; there was awe within the town;
They called her long, but ne'er will wake your pretty Alice Brown."
I linger in the village still; I cannot go away;
I walk the ways alone at eve; sometimes I pause and pray;—
It is not much I say of her; I say it very low;
But somehow it is sweet to think, "Perhaps the spirits know."
One house there is I never pass; one way I never look;
I never climb the hill at eve; I never cross the brook;
But over there, amid the rest, is carved into a stone,
Her name and day, and that sad word I feel the most: "Alone."