Explore "Presentiment" by Ambrose Bierce on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
With saintly grace and reverent tread, / She walked among the graves with me; / Her every foot-fall seemed to be / A benediction on the dead.
The guardian spirit of the place / She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn / Surprised in the untimely morn / She made with her resplendent face.
Moved by some waywardness of will, / Three paces from the path apart / She stepped and stood -- my prescient heart / Was stricken with a passing chill.
The folk-lore of the years agone / Remembering, I smiled and thought: / "Who shudders suddenly at naught, / His grave is being trod upon."
But now I know that it was more / Than idle fancy. O, my sweet, / I did not think such little feet / Could make a buried heart so sore!