Al fin de la jornada

The gathered storm was ripe, the big drops fell— And yet she lingered silent as a stone, Gazing with wildered eyes upon the night, Whilst on her burning bosom for a while, Of twilight whispers and deep noonday vows The welcome shadow fell; one tremulous sob Alone convulsed her parted lips, in ruth That she might never see her home again— Her early-loved and late-forgotten home,— Nor the blue sky, nor yet the silent fields, Grey with the dew of eventide, nor hear The chafers humming aye their weary tune, Nor the deep baying of the wakeful hound, Far, far off in the distance, any more.

Anon she rose; a restless impulse urged Her steps towards the river; fast it flowed With current deep as slumber, the faint plash Of the dark restless water surging past, Washing the time-worn arches of the bridge, In concord with the never-ceasing rain, Made fitful harmony. All else was still.

The rain died slowly with the birth of day, The river still flowed on to meet the sea, The bright sky glistened through the frosted panes, And all the sleeping streets awoke, and all The busy hum of men arose to form The orison she might not join again,— She, whose nude shoulders, and long golden hair Slow cradled by the undulating tide, Shone in the early sunlight of the dawn.