A Girl

Too strange, too far a thing to hold,
Our fingers slip, and let you go;—
A white, long flower high on a cliff,
With peril of the sea below.

We cannot match you as you are,
With aught or all within our reach;
Match shadows on an April pool?
Or moonlight rendered into speech?

You herd the stars up in the sky,
In silver smock, with a tall rod,
And to your arms, as shepherds do,
Gather the little lambs of God.