Midnight was in her raven hair,
But I saw not her shape-
She rode with the fury of hell at her back,
And a locket chained at her nape.
And the beat of the hooves, and the billows of breath,
Was the rhythm of her escape.
I spent the evening with a friend,
And as I tarried late,
I took the wooded shortcut home
To the back of my garden gate,
And there I stood, and there she passed,
The crossings of the fates.