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The tread Of coming footsteps cheats the midnight watcher Who holds her heart and waits to hear them pause, And hears them never pause, but pass and die.

There scatter'd oft the earliest of ye Year By Hands unseen are showers of Vi'lets found; The Redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little Footsteps lightly print the ground.

The footsteps are terrifying, all coming towards you and none going back again.

And so to tread As if the wind, not she, did walk; Nor prest a flower, nor bow'd a stalk.

Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk!

A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew.

The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light; . . .

Steps with a tender foot, light as on air, The lovely, lordly creature floated on.

But I will trace the footsteps of the chief events.

Methought I say the footsteps of a throne. - William Wordsworth,