I smiled with skeptic mocking where they told me you were dead, <br />You of the airy laughter and lightly twinkling feet; <br />"They tell a dream that haunted a chill gray dawn," I said, <br />"Death could not touch or claim a thing so vivid and so sweet!" <br /> <br />I looked upon you coffined amid your virgin flowers, <br />But even that white silence could bring me no belief: <br />"She lies in maiden sleep," I said. "and in the youngling hours <br />Her sealed dark eyes will open to scorn our foolish grief." <br /> <br />But when I went at moonrise to our ancient trysting place. . . . . <br />And, oh, the wind was keening in the fir-boughs overhead! . . . . <br />And you came never to me with your little gypsy face, <br />Your lips and hands of welcome, I knew that you were dead!<br /><br />Lucy Maud Montgomery<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/realization/
