A Winter Sky Of Pale Blue And Pale Gold, Bare Trees, A Wind That Made The Wood-Path Cold, And One Slow-Moving Figure, Gray And Old. We Met Where The Soft Path Falls From The Wood Down To The Village. As I Came Near She Stood And Answered When I Spoke, Drawing The Hood Back From Her Face. I Saw Only Her Eyes, Large And Sad. I Could Not Bear Those Eyes. They Were Like New Graves. I Could Not Bear Her Eyes. But What We Said As Each Passed On Is Gone. We Looked And Spoke And Passed Like Strangers On, I To The High Wood, She Towards The Paling Sun. And There, Where The Clear-Heavened Small Pool Lies, And The Tallest Beeches Brush The Bending Skies, In Pool And Tree I Saw Again Her Eyes.