Here by the moorway you returned, br And saw the borough lights ahead br That lit your face - all undiscerned br To be in a week the face of the dead, br And you told of the charm of that haloed view br That never again would beam on you. br br br And on your left you passed the spot br Where eight days later you were to lie, br And be spoken of as one who was not; br Beholding it with a cursory eye br As alien from you, though under its tree br You soon would halt everlastingly. br br br I drove not with you…. Yet had I sat br At your side that eve I should not have seen br That the countenance I was glancing at br Had a last-time look in the flickering sheen, br Nor have read the writing upon your face, br 'I go hence soon to my resting-place; br br br 'You may miss me then. But I shall not know br How many times you visit me there, br Or what your thoughts are, or if you go br There never at all. And I shall not care. br Should you censure me I shall take no heed br And even your praises I shall not need.' br br br True: never you'll know. And you will not mind. br But shall I then slight you because of such? br Dear ghost, in the past did you ever find br Me one whom consequence influenced much? br Yet the fact indeed remains the same, br You are past love, praise, indifference, blame.