Quo Vadis?

The sedge was sere; the water still,
As waiting for the wintry chill;
When, shadow-like along the hill,
She moved alone.


The owl, upon a blasted limb,
From sepulchres of silence dim
Made charnel echoes mock for him
Their dying moan.


Upon the forehead of the night
The moon, foreboding in affright—
A film of solitary light—
Above her shone.


What meant the omen of the bird?
The moon with blinding vapours blurred?
What in her heart of anguish stirred
The stifled groan?


A plunge, a ripple, and a sigh
Of waters;—fleeting soul, reply,
Was it for death of Love to die,
Or to atone?