This is her picture painted ere mine eyes
Her ever holy face had looked upon.
She sitteth in a silence of her own;
Behind her, on the ground, a red rose lies;
Her thinking brow is bent, nor doth arise
Her gaze from that shut book whose word unknown
Her firm hands hide from her; there all alone
She sitteth in thought-trouble, maidenwise.
And now her lover waiting wondereth
Whether the joy of joys is drawing near;
Shall his brave fingers like a tender breath
That shut book open for her, wide and clear?
From him who her sweet shadow worshipeth
Now will she take the rose, and hold it dear?Richard Watson Gilder