Here by the moorway you returned,
And saw the borough lights
That lit your face — all
To be in a week the face of the dead,
And you told of the charm of that haloed
That never again would beam on you.
And on your left you passed the
Where eight days later you were to lie,
And be spoken of as one who was not;
Beholding it with a cursory
As alien from you, though under its
You soon would halt everlastingly.
I drove not with you….
Yet had I
At your side that eve I should not have
That the countenance I was glancing
Had a last-time look in the flickering sheen,
Nor have read the writing upon your face,'I go hence soon to my resting-place;'You may miss me then.
But I shall not
How many times you visit me there,
Or what your thoughts are, or if you
There never at all.
And I shall not care.
Should you censure me I shall take no
And even your praises I shall not need.'True: never you'll know.
And you will not mind.
But shall I then slight you because of such?
Dear ghost, in the past did you ever
Me one whom consequence influenced much?
Yet the fact indeed remains the same,
You are past love, praise, indifference, blame.
