Vagrancy

THE storm lies black upon the sky,
The lonely wood is gray with snow,
And footprints on a spring-time path
Are vanished long ago.

She is a vagrant now, with Death;
Her careless shade flits past my door.
She will not tarry here, nor speak,
Nor lead me as before.

I too will wander o ’er the world,
And by the chart she made for me
Will find the cross upon the hill,
The shrine beyond the sea.