Hazel Hall

Ephemera

THERE is a woman who makes my eye
    A place of shadows, as now and then 
I see her dimly going by,
    And faintly coming back again.

She moves as many others move;
    There is no uttrance in her tread 
To tempt an echo, nor to prove
    What other footsteps have not said.

As often as she comes and goes
    She is forgotten, as now and then 
The wind is forgotten until it blows
    A blur of dust down the street again.