She sat so quiet day by day,
The sweet withdrawal 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 thoughts 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.