The Rabbit

In the chill of an autumn evening, while the twisted leaves were weaving, I was wandering, weak and weeping, through a cemetery of yore— By a tombstone cracked and leaning, I heard something slowly creeping, Just a rustle in the seeping, seeping fog upon the moor. " 'Tis a rabbit," I stammered, "hidden in the foggy moor— Only this and nothing more.

Ah, the sorrow I remember, in the chilling breath of September, And each twisted, dying briar wrought its shadow on the moor. Feverishly I sought the morrow—vainly I had tried to borrow From my grief a brief surcease—sorrow for my lost Eleanor— For the pale and precious maiden taken by the grave, Eleanor— Lost to me forevermore.

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Spirit," said I, "or phantom, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was weeping, and so softly you came creeping, Creeping through the mist so slowly, stepping on the cemetery floor, That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I stepped beyond the stone— Shadows there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mourner ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the muttered word, "Eleanor?" This I whispered, and the night-wind murmured back the word, "Eleanor!"— Merely this and nothing more.

Frantic now, I wrenched the marble, pulling weeds from off the barrow, When the heavy slab was lifted, out there stepped a shape of yore— Not the least obeisance made he; not a moment stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, strode across the cemetery floor— A coal-black, dismal rabbit, striding on the cemetery floor— Halted, and sat, and nothing more.