Alien

She was a wild plum flower,
As fair as that fair thing;
A breathless blowing hers,
As it were the last spring.

Not anything to her
A spire with stars for fold;
A rose though but the one;
Or a sack full of gold.

We could not make her care
For sheep bells coming home;
For yarrow in a field;
For gilded frock or comb.

Once, like a wild plum flower,
She strewed her leaves to night,
All her white loneliness
In a moment gone from sight.

Timeless she lasts, but where
We have not yet found out;
But not in any town
Or any house about.