Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward

The Indian Girl: A Picture By Walter Shirlaw

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She standeth silent as a thought
Too sacred to be uttered; all
Her face unfurling like a flower
That at a breath too near will shut.
Her life a little golden clock
Whose shining hands, arrested, stay
Forever at the hour of Love.


She doubts, she dares, she dreams--of what?
I ask; she, shrinking, answers not,
She swims before me, dim, a cup
Of waste, untasted tenderness.
I drink, I dread, until I seem
(Myself unto myself) to be
He whom she chose, and charmed--and missed,
On some faint Asiatic day
Of languorous summer, ages since.

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