Think of Me as a Passer-By

Think of me as a passer-by who brought

A snatch of melody along the street;

Who sang to her own soul, and had not thought

That you would hear-that you would find it sweet.

Think of me as a gipsy-girl whose name

You did not know and did not seek to find,

Content that out of nothingness she came,

And sang, and-singing-passed, and left behind

Only a snatch of music that grew still.

After a while the want of her will die.

And if she saw your eyes across the sill

Is of small count. The world will not ask why

Her song is changed-since still, since still she sings

To her own soul, a song of passing things.

Ellen Fanson