Pale topsails in the offing shone,

And faded into foam:

And down the noontide, one by one,

The pale, proud ships would roam;

Each sailor to his love went on;

Each wanderer to his home.

And, ceasing not, death's nearing knell

Tolled in a heart that dreamed no more.

Our lips shook, sad as lips in hell;

But, fearful of the rending shore,

To fill all time with sad farewell

We would have sailed for evermore!

For pleasantly a song she'd croon,

And feign the world a kindly place;

And tender was the haunting tune

To match her haunting grace;

And tenderly the witching moon

Toyed with her feeling face ...

Our love was like the scent of flowers

To her who watches by the bed

 Prev. P 18/53 next