At first it seemed a white cloud, nothing more,
Slow drifting by my door,
  Or gardened lilies swaying in the wind;
    Then suddenly each separate face I knew,
    The tender lovers drifting two and two,
  Old, peaceful folk long since passed out of mind,
And little children—­one whose hand held still
An earth-grown daffodil.

And here I saw one pausing for a space
To lift a wistful face
  Up to a certain window where there dreamed
    A little brood left motherless; and there
    One turned to where the unploughed fields lay bare;
  And others lingering passed—­but one there seemed
So over glad to haste, she scarce could wait
To reach the churchyard gate!

The farrier’s little maid who loved too well
And died—­I may not tell
  How glad she seemed.  My neighbors, young and old,
    With backward glances lingered as they went;
    Only upon one face was all content,
  A sorrow comforted—­a peace untold. 
I watched them through the swinging gate—­the dawn
Stayed till the last had gone.

A BALLAD OF HALLOWE’EN:  THEODOSIA GARRISON

All night the wild wind on the heath
  Whistled its song of vague alarms;
All night in some mad dance of death
  The poplars tossed their naked arms.

Mignon Isa hath left her bed
  And bared her shoulders to the blast;
The long procession of the dead
  Stared at her as it passed.

“Oh, there, methinks, my mother smiled,
  And there my father walks forlorn,
And there the little nameless child
  That was the parish scorn.

“And there my olden comrades move,
  And there my sister smiles apart,
But nowhere is the fair, false love
  That bent and broke my heart.

“Oh, false in life, oh, false in death,
  Wherever thy mad spirit be,
Could it not come this night,” she saith,
  “And keep tryst with me?”

Mignon Isa has turned alone,
  Bitter the pain and long the years;
The moonlight on the old gravestone
  Was warmer than her tears.

All night the wild wind on the heath
  Whistled its song of vague alarms;
All night in some mad dance of death
  The poplars tossed their naked arms.

THE FORGOTTEN SOUL:  MARGARET WIDDEMER

‘Twas I that cried against the pane on All Souls’ Night
  (O pulse of my heart’s life, how could you never hear?)
You filled the room I knew with yellow candlelight
  And cheered the lass beside you when she cried in fear.

’Twas I that went beside you in the gray wood-mist
  (O core of my heart’s heart, how could you never know?)
You only frowned and shuddered as you bent and kissed
  The lass hard by you, handfast, as I used to go.