'The Lady's Walk' by Aston Carle.
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A wild, weird look has the ‘Lady’s Walk,’
And the trees are stripped and old;
They solemn bend in mute-like talk,
In the twilight grey and cold.

Each gaunt and rugged sinewy root
Starts up along the way -
Memento sad of the lady’s foot
That erst did mournful stray.

Ghost-like the boughs loom in the sky,
And, skeleton-like, they meet;
The very pathway, white and dry,
Curves like a winding-sheet.

The rustling leaves that autumn weaves
In wither’d hillocks lie,
And the chilly wind soughs just behind
Like the lady’s tearful sigh.

Heavily rolls the evening mist,
And the rising night winds throb
By root and shoot, just where they list,
Till they sound like the lady’s sob.

And the nightly shadows come and go,
And the gaunt trees bow and wave,
Like weeping mourners, to and fro
Over a dear one’s grave.

Then this is the far-famed "Lady’s Walk,"
And walketh she there to-night?
Holdeth her spirit silent talk
With that moon so sickly white?

I hear no sound but the rushing bound
Of the swelled and foaming river,
That seems to say: I cannot stay,
But must on for ever and ever.