If spirits walk, love, when the night climbs slow
The slant footpath where we were wont to go,
  Be sure that I shall take the selfsame way
  To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down the gray,
Sheer, gravelled slope, where vetches straggling grow.

Look for me not when gusts of winter blow,
When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow;
  ...