THE INDIAN GIRL. 

 A PICTURE BY WALTER SHIRLAW. 

 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. 

 

 

 SEALED. 

 "Shall I pour you the wine," she said, "The wine that is rare and red? Sweeter the cup for the drop."— "But why do you shrink and stop?" 

 "The seal of the wine Has a sacred sign; I am afraid," she said. 

"The seal of the wine

Has a sacred sign;

I am afraid," she said.

 "I love and revere You more for your fear, Than I do for your wine," he said. 

"I love and revere

You more for your fear,

Than I do for your wine," he said.

 

 

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