THE INDIAN GIRL.

She standeth silent as a thought Too sacred to be uttered; all Her face unfurling like a flower That at a breath too near will shut. Her life a little golden clock Whose shining hands, arrested, stay Forever at the hour of Love.

She doubts, she dares, she dreams—of what? I ask; she, shrinking, answers not, She swims before me, dim, a cup Of waste, untasted tenderness. I drink, I dread, until I seem (Myself unto myself) to be He whom she chose, and charmed—and missed, On some faint Asiatic day Of languorous summer, ages since.