Faustine

She muses while the sunbeams creep

In slanting piers of light,

She muses while the shadows sleep

About the fire at night;

Hers is the vestal's waiting air,

The silence sweet and weird;

More wisdom nestles in her hair

Than crouched in Nestor's beard;

Troops of to-morrows cross her thought

In happy Junes and Mays,

And files of slow Septembers fraught

With priceless yesterdays;

And all her hours a thronging host

With visitations fill;

She gazes on each tranquil ghost

With eyes more tranquil still.