To Whom it may Please You

She was not one of beauty's daughters
Yet she held the mind
Like waters still and grey and sounding,
Deep mists to blind.
She was not one of wisdom's children,
Yet held the wayward heart
As all the smiles of wise ones
Ever love has feared.

Well, and what was she? A spirit? soul?
Something of spirit, then.
She was the world's special care
Like only to herself. When
You hear the beast beyond the door,
The night-engine beating on,
Remember each care's there for her,?—
She and tomorrow, one.