The ghost of a lady haunts the spillway;
Hanging branches snag the gloom;
At daybreak, as the valley emerges,
From circling mist her presence converges;
The faintest wailing rises with the spume.
There will be a flash, a glimmer—
A mote falls into the eye at noon:
A glimpse of the belovèd swimmer,
Never drowned, but lithe and whole,
Swimming in sunlight while his remnants roll
Deep in the water, ground against the flume.