Briefly it enters, briefly it speaks.

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years......

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper......

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me......

I am food on the prisoner's plate.....

I am water rushing to the well-head,
filling the pitcher until it spills.....

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden.....

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge......

I am the heart contracted by joy....
the longest hair, white
before the rest.....

I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow......

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit......

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name.....

                                                           Jane Kenyon

Yet another clipping in my scrap-book from a while ago, no date, no origin.