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Lizette Woodworth Reese
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.
You who flutter and quiver
An instant
Just beyond my apprehension;
Lady,
I will find the white orchid for you,
If you will but give me
One smile between those wayward drifts of hair.
I will break the wild berries that loop themselves over the marsh-pool,
For your sake,
And the long green canes that swish against each other,
I will break, to set in your hands.
For there is no wonder like to you,
You who flutter and quiver
An instant
Just beyond my apprehension.