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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!

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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…
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