  A As a shy bird that startled from her nest Wings her far way into the highest blue, Nor dreams that she has left us any clue To find which elm tree had been loved the best; Though all the while its light boughs, fluttering In the deep noonday silence, softly beat Their soundless echoes to her flying feet Now swiftly in the blue air vanishing:— So haply you would keep a secret, dear, Your unseen presence in my little room, That glorified into unwonted bloom Betrays to me what fair guest has been here. Who else, dear, in my absence would have thought To close the favorite book, left open here Where a disputed passage was made clear By a few words with tedious patience sought;— Then with a sudden and repentant grace That all the mischief of its fault bereft, Have found the very page again, and left |
|
