The Stranger

By Nora May French

She sat so quiet day by day,
    The sweetest withdrawl 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 throughts 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.