Here by the moorway you returned, And saw the borough lights ahead That lit your face--all undiscerned To be in a week the face of the dead, And you told of the charm of that haloed view That never again would beam on you.
And on your left you passed the spot Where eight days later you were to lie, And be spoken of as one who was not;
Beholding it with a cursory eye As alien from you, though under its tree You soon would halt everlastingly.
I drove not with you . . . Yet had I sat At your side that eve I should not have seen That the countenance I was glancing at 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 know How many times you visit me there, Or what your thoughts are, or if you go There never at all. And I shall not care.
Should you censure me I shall take no heed 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 find The thought "What profit?" move me much Yet the fact indeed remains the same, You are past love, praise, indifference, blame.
December 1912.
