WITH saintly grace and reverent tread <br />She walked among the graves with me; <br />Her every footfall seemed to be <br />A benediction on the dead. <br /> <br />The guardian spirit of the place <br />She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn, <br />Surprised by the untimely morn <br />She made with her resplendent face. <br /> <br />Moved by some waywardness of will, <br />Three paces from the path apart <br />She stepped and stood—my prescient heart <br />Was stricken with a passing chill. <br /> <br />My child-lore of the years agone <br />Remembering, I smiled and thought, <br />“Who shudders suddenly at naught, <br />His grave is being trod upon.” <br /> <br />But now I know that it was more <br />Than idle fancy. O, my sweet, <br />I did not know such little feet <br />Could make a buried heart so sore!<br /><br />Ambrose Bierce<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/presentiment-3/
