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.