Presentiment

With saintly grace and reverent tread She walked among the graves with me; Her every footfall seemed to be A benediction on the dead. The guardian spirit of the place She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn, Surprised by the untimely morn She made with her resplendent face. Moved by some waywardness of will, Three paces from the path apart She stepped and stood—my prescient heart Was stricken with a passing chill. My child-lore of the years agone Remembering, I smiled and thought, “Who shudders suddenly at naught, His grave is being trod upon.” But now I know that it was more Than idle fancy. O, my sweet, I did not know such little feet Could make a buried heart so sore!

Collection: 
English
Ambrose Bierce

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