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Gone

 


  Is it the shrewd October wind
    Brings the tears into her eyes?
  Does it blow so strong that she must fetch
    Her breath in sudden sighs?


  The sound of his horse's feet grows faint,
    The Rider has passed from sight;
  The day dies out of the crimson west,
    And coldly falls the night.


  She presses her tremulous fingers tight
    Against her clos├ęd eyes,
  And on the lonesome threshold there,
    She cowers down and cries.


 

William Dean Howells