It Was Beneath A Waning Moon When All The Woods Were Sear, And Winds Made Eddies Of The Leaves That Whispered Far And Near, I Met Her On The Old Mill-Bridge We Parted At Last Year. At First I Deemed It But A Mist That Faltered In That Place, An Autumn Mist Beneath The Trees That Sentineled The Race; Until I Neared And In The Moon Beheld Her Face To Face. The Waver Of The Summer-Heat Upon The Drouth-Dry Leas; The Shimmer Of The Thistle-Drift A Down The Silences; The Gliding Of The Fairy-Fire Between The Swamp And Trees; They Qualified Her Presence As A Sorrow May A Dream The Vague Suggestion Of A Self; The Glimmer Of A Gleam; The Actual Unreal Of The Things That Only Seem. Where Once She Came With Welcome And Glad Eyes All Loving-Wise, She Passed And Gave No Greeting That My Heart Might Recognize, With Far-Set Face Unseeing And Sad Unremembering Eyes. It Was Beneath A Waning Moon When Woods Were Bleak And Sear, And Winds Made Whispers Of The Leaves That Eddied Far And Near, I Met Her Ghost Upon The Bridge We Parted At Last Year.