Alien

She was a wild plum flower, As fair as that fair thing; A breathless blowing hers, As it were the last spring.

Not anything to her A spire with stars for fold; A rose though but the one; Or a sack full of gold.

We could not make her care For sheep bells coming home; For yarrow in a field; For gilded frock or comb.

Once, like a wild plum flower. She strewed her leaves to night, All her white loneliness In a moment gone from sight.

Timeless she lasts, but where We have not yet found out; But not in any town Or any house about.