Footprints

by Conrad Ferdinand Meyer

It was in our youth. I brought you

Back to the neighbors’ house, where you were visiting,

Through the small wood. The mist was trickling,

You pulled up the hood of your traveling dress

And looked at me intimately with your forehead covered.

The path was wet. Our soles stamped themselves

Distinctly onto the damp forest floor,

Our moving soles. You were walking on the rim,

Talking about your journey. Yet another one,

The longer one, would follow, you said.

Then we joked, cleverly covering the face

Of the impending separation, and you departed

At the spot where the roof ridge rises above the elms.

I walked comfortably back over the same path,

Still quietly reveling in your loveliness,

In your fierce shyness, and lightheartedly

Trusting that we would soon meet again.

Sauntering pleasantly, I saw on the field ridge

The outline of your soles still distinctly

Stamped into the damp forest floor,

The slightest trace of you, the most evanescent,

And yet your nature: wandering, traveling,

Slim, pure, forest-dark, but oh how sweet!

The footprints now pointing in the direction opposite to mine

As I walked back over the same stretch:

Out of your footsteps you arose

Before my inward eye. I caught sight of

Your figure with the delicate curve of its bosom.

You walked past, a dream shape.

The footprints now became less distinct,

Half obliterated by rain, which was falling harder.

Then a sadness crept over me:

Almost before my eyes there disappeared

The traces of your last walk with me.