To Her There Came At Dawn, As She Lay Still
To her there came at dawn, as she lay still,
A sense of moth-wings fluttering in the dark;
Then with swift stroke of the imprisoned lark,
Beating his lowly cage; whereat a thrill
Shot through her members, and as clouds distil
In heavy drops, unloaded by a spark,
She wept with joy, though she must now embark
Upon that lonely journey fraught with ill.
Yet never a word she spake to him that lay
Beside her: but her carriage was so proud,
Her secret became plain, as it may be
A child reveals some hidden joy in play:
She bore herself as if she were endowed
A tabernacle for some mystery.