Читать книгу Poems - French Nora May - Страница 14

SHE sat so quiet day by day,

The sweet withdrawal of a nun,

With busy hands and downward eyes —

The shyest thing beneath the sun.

Nor knew we, tossing each to each

Our rapid speech, our careless words,

That through them, always, half-afraid,

Her thoughts had gone like seeking birds,

Plucking a twig, a shining straw,

A happy thread with silken gleams,

To carry homeward to her heart,

And weave a hidden nest of dreams.