Page:Poems Proctor.djvu/131

If the tiniest bird had flown,
Its flight had a shadow thrown
   On lawn and rill;

But neither a sound nor sight
Disturbed the calm or the light
   Of the noontide air;
Yet the friend I loved was as far
As a ghostly moon or star,
   From my call and care.

Dead, with her hand in mine!
Dead, in the golden shine
   Of the autumn day!
Dead, and no note in heaven,
Nor a gleam of white wings given,
   To mark her way!

And my heart went up in the cry,
"How did the swift soul fly?
   What life inherit?" . . .
Then the wind blew sweet and was gone . . .
And a voice said, "So is one
   Born of the Spirit."