The speaker is haunted by the memory—or the presence—of a woman named Angélique. Over and over, they ask if anyone has seen her, describing her in ghostly terms: a white robe, a pale hand holding a flickering light that’s almost gone. She already seems half-lost, a soul on the verge of slipping away. The second stanza wonders uneasily whether she knows how to find the dead, that blindfolded journey beneath the grave-cloth. The real chill comes in the final lines. At night, the speaker hears her moan, shivers in bed, and knows she’s out there wandering, all alone, unable to reach the dead. The mood is a quiet, creeping dread mixed with pity. It leaves you with the sense of a trapped spirit, forever searching and never finding rest.
Angélique — Summary
Have you seen Angélique, What way she went? A white robe she wore, A flickering light near spent Her pale hand bore.
Have you seen Angélique? Will she know the place Dead feet must find, The grave-cloth on her face To make her blind?
Have you seen Angélique. . . . At night I hear her moan, And I shiver in my bed; She wanders all alone, She cannot find the dead.