Woman Wrapped in Silence [antikvár]

A WOMAN WRAPPED IN SILENCE HIS was a little child who knew not man, Nor life, nor all the needed frauds of life. Nor any compromise, and when she turned To raise the earthen jar, and faced the airs Of Spring, she smiled for young security. And she was glad. These were her own, these lanes Of Nazareth. She'd known the slope and feel Of them for all her years, and they had known Of her, and she was walking now and was Familiar, and the well she sought not far Beyond the clustered houses was so old It had become a part of permanence. The sky around it was so clear, serene With blue, and framed with hills that had been hers For always, and which lifted up a silence She had loved. These thresholds were her friends, These white walls leaning, and the narrow doors, And she could watch the shadows and the slant Of sun, and turn a corner so, and hear The farther crowing of a cock, and guess That in the marketplace were dusty sheep She could not hear; and passing on, she marked With deeper care that from an opened window Rose the sound of psalms. She was at home. These few streets and the ruts in them were home, And she was sure, and young, and now the others At the well had called to her, and said Among them it was Mary who had come.