John Atkinson Grimshaw, “At the Park Gate” (1878)

On gloomy autumn evenings,
When on the deserted streets
Under a dark stormy sky
You will not meet a soul in this town,
With the hood pulled over Her head,
She runs past
Houses.

None of the people have seen
Her,
But if someone glanced
Where Her face should be under the hood,
They would see only
Emptiness.

Her hand holds a staff.
But if someone lifted
The sleeve on this arm,
They would see only
Emptiness.

The lonely cloak floats
Over the broken pavement.
Under the dusty cloak, there is
Emptiness.

The sandals, old and gray ones,
Which run as if by themselves,
Rustle and shuffle, leaving in the dust
Especially long
Footprints.

Being busy with their things,
People do not notice
How She flashes in Her dark clothes under
The windows.

Only then, having found
The especially long footprints,
They whisper to one another in fright:
“Did you see that? Did you?
The footprints!
The one who passed here was She.
Woe to us!”