Classic Poem

I SAW a child, once, that had lost its way
In a great city: ah, dear heaven, such eyes! —
A far-off look in them, as if the skies
Her birthplace were. So looks to me the May.
April is winsome, June is glad and gay;
May glides betwixt them in such wondering wise,
Lovely as dropped from some fair Paradise,
And knowing, all the while, herself astray.
Or is the fault with us? Nay, call it not
A fault, but a sweet trouble! Is it we, —
Catching some glimpse of our own destiny
In May's renewing touch, some yearning thought
Of heaven, beneath her resurrecting hand, —
We who are aliens, lost in a strange land?