Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/203

 "For the path that leads to it is almost lost; And quite tall grass-flowers of sickly blue Have grown up there and gathered for years, and tost  Bitter germs all around them to grow up too; For indeed all these years not a man has crost  That pathway—not even You!"— But alas! for these words to my heart he sent, For I knew it was Marguérite's grave that he meant, And I felt that the words were true.

Then the dim sweet faces of them of yore Seemed to start from the mist where the memory lies; And each one was as sweet and as dear as before; But a piteous look was in all their eyes— Yea, the long smile of sadness; and each one bore A reproach in some tender wise: Till my bosom was troubled and sorely thrilled With the thought of them all, and my ears were filled With a sound of the mingling of sighs.