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.