She Did Not Turn, But Passed Foot-Faint With Averted Head In Her Gown Of Green, By The Bobbing Fern, Though I Leaned Over The Gate That Led From Where We Waited With Table Spread; But She Did Not Turn: Why Was She Near There If Love Had Fled? She Did Not Turn, Though The Gate Was Whence I Had Often Sped In The Mists Of Morning To Meet Her, And Learn Her Heart, When Its Moving Moods I Read As A Book She Mine, As She Sometimes Said; But She Did Not Turn, And Passed Foot-Faint With Averted Head.