Poems (Nora May French)/The Stranger
THE STRANGER
SHE sat so quiet day by day, The sweet withdrawal of a nun, With busy hands and downward eyes— The shyest thing beneath the sun.
Nor knew we, tossing each to each Our rapid speech, our careless words, That through them, always, half-afraid, Her thoughts had gone like seeking birds,
Plucking a twig, a shining straw, A happy thread with silken gleams, To carry homeward to her heart, And weave a hidden nest of dreams.