THE SOLITARY

Upon the mossed rock by the spring

She sits, forgetful of her pail,

Lost in remote remembering

Of that which may no more avail.

Her thin, pale hair is dimly dressed

Above a brow lined deep with care,

The color of a leaf long pressed,

A faded leaf that once was fair.

You may not know her from the stone

So still she sits who does not stir,

Thinking of this one thing alone —

The love that never came to her.