A lady in green or grey (the tale is flexible)
treks the eternal circuit of the upper floor,
ignoring assured statements from solemn faces
that the places are empty - the devoted servant fled.
Her tread animates the creaking passage boards
from a store of blended (if loosely remembered) legends,
to register atmosphere more real than the pallid
reality, within his palace of squabbling unrest.
Her zest for life had wilted on its wizened stem,
as trembling doubts paraded possibilities,
filling her youthful well-instructed head
with dread perception of permanent marital bonds.
Within that troubled brood where she belonged,
she feared the worst, on sensing drastic wrong.