Rush up to the hand of the shore,

And with its vehement lips

Kiss its down-dropt whiteness o'er,

But I think of that magic night,

When my lips, like waves on a coast,

Broke over the moonlit hand

Of her that I love the most.

[Pg 24]

I never behold the surf

Lit by the sun into gold,

Curl and glitter and gleam,

In a ring-like billow rolled,

But I think of another ring,

A simple, delicate band,

That in the night of our troth

I placed on a darling hand.

XXI. AN ENEMY MAY BE SERVED, EVEN THROUGH MISTAKE, WITH PROFIT.

I was walking down the sidewalk,

When up, with flying mane,

Two iron-black steeds came spurning

 Prev. P 29/151 next