Is it the shrewd October wind
  Brings the tears into her eyes?
Does it blow so strong that she must fetch
  Her breath in sudden sighs?

The sound of his horse's feet grows faint,
  The Rider has passed from sight;
The day dies out of the crimson west,
  And coldly falls the night.

She presses her tremulous fingers tight
  Against her closèd eyes,
And on the lonesome threshold there,
  She cowers down and cries.