She slid a cupped hand in the lake,
Her thirst to slake,
When, from the corner of her eye,
She saw, hard by,
An old hunched heron, standing there
With ghostly air.
She wondered that he did not stir,
Or glance at her:
And then she realised with dread
That he was dead,
Though, tangled in reed-roots and mud,
Upright he stood
As if still living; standing still
With arrowy bill
Still threatening the fish that fled,
Nor knew him dead.
The water trickled from her hand,
As on the sand
She slowly sank, with fluttering breath,
Before grey death,
An old hunched heron, standing there,
With ghostly air.