Here by the moorway you returned
And saw the borough lights ahead
That lit your face — all undiscerned
To be in a week the face of the dead
And you told of the charm of that haloed view
That never again would beam on you

And on your left you passed the spot
Where eight days later you were to lie
And be spoken of as one who was not
Beholding it with a cursory eye
As alien from you, though under its tree
You soon would halt everlastingly

I drove not with you…. Yet had I sat
At your side that eve I should not have seen
That the countenance I was glancing at
Had a last-time look in the flickering sheen
Nor have read the writing upon your face
I go hence soon to my resting-place

You may miss me then. But I shall not know
How many times you visit me there
Or what your thoughts are, or if you go
There never at all. And I shall not care
Should you censure me I shall take no heed
And even your praises I shall not need
True: never you'll know. And you will not mind
But shall I then slight you because of such?
Dear ghost, in the past did you ever find
Me one whom consequence influenced much?
Yet the fact indeed remains the same
You are past love, praise, indifference, blame