Classic Poem

Perhaps she watches where a silver bay
Curves like a twisted moon between the hills,
Her mild eyes lowered while the angels play
Their soft-tongued trumpets, and a music fills
The sky and sea. Perhaps her wistful soul
Steals back to that sweet hour when Gabriel
Bore her the swaying lily to unroll
The mystic plans of God. I cannot tell,
And yet it seems not so. . . . I see her stand
At dusk beneath some rich, dull olive grove,
Pensive with thoughts of motherhood and love,
Her slender body like a flower swayed
To hold her child, watching the blue sea fade,
And neighbors toiling up the terraced land.