So still, so slow
No mortal may know
How stately her footsteps are;
Nor what fair music is guide of her feet,
Solemn and high and sweet;
All in a tune
To the Sun and the Moon,
And the drums that the glad worlds beat.
As long a path as your little orb goes,
From the first of her flowers to the last of her snows
My white Home sweeps in a night;
Knowing not haste, knowing no rest,
For delight
In the life of her silver light
And joy of the wide blue waste,
Where the Angels pass
Like fish through the sea's green glass,
But you cannot see that sight!"
And, while we did not speak for wistfulness,
Watching the woven paces, wondering
To note how foot and tongue kept faultless time
