by Hazel Hall
THERE is a woman who makes my eye
A place of shadows, as now and then
I see her dimly going by,
And faintly coming back again.
She moves as many others move;
There is no uttrance in her tread
To tempt an echo, nor to prove
What other footsteps have not said.
As often as she comes and goes
She is forgotten, as now and then
The wind is forgotten until it blows
A blur of dust down the street again.