A pious maiden as she stands
Just on the threshold of the years
That throb and pulse with hopes and fears,
And reaches God her helpless hands.
How fair is she! How fond is she!
Her foot upon the threshold there.
Her breath is as a blossomed tree,—
This maiden mantled in her hair!
Her hair, her black, abundant hair,
Where night, inhabited all night
And all this day, will not take flight,
But finds content and houses there.
Her hands are clasped, her two small hands;
They hold the holy book of prayer
Just as she steps the threshold there,
Clasped downward where she silent stands.
XIII.
Once more she lifts her lowly face,
And slowly lifts her large, dark eyes
Of wonder; and in still surprise
She looks full forward in her place.
She looks full forward on the air
Above the tomb, and yet below
The fruits of gold, the blooms of snow,
As looking—looking anywhere.
She feels—she knows not what she feels;
It is not terror, is not fear,
But there is something that reveals
A presence that is near and dear.
She does not let her eyes fall down,
They lift against the far profound:
Against the blue above the town
Two wide-winged vultures circle round.
Two brown birds swim above the sea,—
Her large eyes swim as dreamily
And follow far, and follow high,
Two circling black specks in the sky.