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JUST at the corner of the wall / We met-yes, he and I- / Who had not faced in camp or hall / Since we bade home good-bye, / And what once happened came back-all- / Out of those years gone by.
And that strange woman whom we knew / And loved-long dead and gone, / Whose poor half-perished residue, / Tombless and trod, lay yon! / But at this moment to our view / Rose like a phantom wan.
And in his fixed face I could see, / Lit by a lurid shine, / The drama re-enact which she / Had dyed incarnadine / For us, and more. And doubtless he / Beheld it too in mine.
A start, as at one slightly known, / And with an indifferent air / We passed, without a sign being shown / That, as it real were, / A memory-acted scene had thrown / Its tragic shadow there.