The Head Above the Fog

               Something do I see
    Above the fog that sheets the mead,
    A figure like to life indeed,
    Moving along with spectre-speed,
               Seen by none but me.

                O the vision keen!—
    Tripping along to me for love
    As in the flesh it used to move,
    Only its hat and plume above
               The evening fog-fleece seen.

               In the day-fall wan,
    When nighted birds break off their song,
    Mere ghostly head it skims along,
    Just as it did when warm and strong,
               Body seeming gone.

               Such it is I see
    Above the fog that sheets the mead—
    Yea, that which once could breathe and plead!—
    Skimming along with spectre-speed
               To a last tryst with me.