To Her Who Passes / Maurice Browne

To Her Who Passes
Her footsteps fall in silent sands; Her hands are cool like growing leaves; The fingers of her hovering hands Touch lightly, pass; and time bereaves The benison of her caress Of peace, or pain, or bitterness. The kisses of her mouth like dew Rain gently down; if she has sinned, That she had sinned she never knew; Lightly she walks upon the wind, And like the wind she leaves no trace Upon the quiet of this place.