A Hidden Life and Other Poems. George MacDonald

of the lady? Little more I know.

       Not even if, when she had read the lines,

       She rose in haste, and to her chamber went,

       And shut the door; nor if, when she came forth,

       A dawn of holier purpose shone across

       The sadness of her brow; unto herself

       Convicted; though the great world, knowing all,

       Might call her pure as day—yea, truth itself.

       Of these things I know nothing—only know

       That on a warm autumnal afternoon,

       When half-length shadows fell from mossy stones,

       Darkening the green upon the grassy graves,

       While the still church, like a said prayer, arose

       White in the sunshine, silent as the graves,

       Empty of souls, as is the tomb itself;

       A little boy, who watched a cow near by

       Gather her milk from alms of clover fields,

       Flung over earthen dykes, or straying out

       Beneath the gates upon the paths, beheld

       All suddenly—he knew not how she came—

       A lady, closely veiled, alone, and still,

       Seated upon a grave. Long time she sat

       And moved not, "greetin' sair," the boy did say;

       "Just like my mither whan my father deed.

       An' syne she rase, an' pu'd at something sma',

       A glintin' gowan, or maybe a blade

       O' the dead grass," and glided silent forth,

       Over the low stone wall by two old steps,

       And round the corner, and was seen no more.

       The clang of hoofs and sound of carriage wheels

       Arose and died upon the listener's ear.