2 min read
Слушать(AI)Presentiment
TH saintly grace and reverent tread She walked among the graves with me; Her every footfall seemed to beA benediction on the dead.
The guardian spirit of the place She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn, Surprised by the untimely
She made with her resplendent face.
Moved by some waywardness of will, Three paces from the path apart She stepped and stood—my prescient
Was stricken with a passing chill.
My child-lore of the years agone Remembering,
I smiled and thought, “Who shudders suddenly at naught, His grave is being trod upon.” But now I know that it was more Than idle fancy.
O, my sweet, I did not know such little
Could make a buried heart so sore!
Ambrose Bierce
Ambrose Gwinnett Bierce (June 24, 1842– circa 1914) was an American short story writer, journalist, poet, and Civil War veteran. His book The De
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
To ES Salomon
What Salomon such words from you, Who call yourself a soldier Well, The Southern brother where he
Weather
Once I dipt into the future far as human eye could see, And I saw the Chief Forecaster, dead as any one can be— Dead and damned and shut in Hades as a liar from his birth, With a record of unreason seldome paralleled on earth While I looked h...
The Mad Philosopher
The flabby wine-skin of his Yields to some pathologic strain, And voids from its unstored The driblet of an aphorism
Decalogue
Thou shalt no God but me adore: 'Twere too expensive to have more No images nor idols make For Roger Ingersoll to break Take not God's name in vain: select A time when it will have effect Work not on Sabbath days at all, But go to s...
