Lizette Woodworth Reese’s speaker is thinking of a girl who cannot be kept or fully described. From the start, she slips through their fingers like something too distant and fragile—a white flower high on a cliff above the sea. No ordinary comparison seems able to match her; doing so would be like pinning down April shadows on water or turning moonlight into words. The final image places her in the sky, dressed in a silver smock, herding stars and gathering the little lambs of God as a shepherd would. There is a strong sense that she has left ordinary life behind, perhaps through death, and now belongs to a gentler, holier world. The speaker feels awe and a quiet, grief-tinged longing rather than anger. The mood is dreamy, hushed, and reverent—like watching someone lovely and unreachable slip into light.
A Girl — Summary
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.