Iii

Music that melts through moonlight, Faint on the summer breeze; Fireflies, moonlight, and foaming Susurrus of the seas.

Music that drifts like perfume, And touches like a hand; Dreams and stars and the ocean, And we alone on the sand.

Glimmers and vague reflections, And the white swirl of the foam; Pale on the purple a vessel, And a light that beckons home.

And I seem to see the music, On a moonbeam bar that floats, For the music is moonlight magic, And the flies are its golden notes.

And I seem to hear one singing Of a brown old coast and sea, Of lives that were filled with passion, And old-world tragedy.

And I hear the harsh reef’s calling For a noble ship at sea, And the winds of the ocean singing A dirge for the dead to be.

Till it seems that I am the pilot, And you are the mermaidén, Who lures him on to the wrecking And into her arms again.

Song

Over the hills where the winds are waking All is lone as the soul of me; Over the hills where the stars are shaking, Breton hills by the sea.

These were with me to tell me often How she pined in her Croisic home, Winds that sing and the stars that soften Over the miles of foam.

Fishers’ nets and the sailor faces; Sad salt marshes and granite piers; Brown, loud coast where the long foam races-- And a parting full of tears.

A gray sail’s ghost where the autumn lies on Wraiths of the mist and the squall-blown rain; Her dark girl eyes that search the horizon, Grave with a haunting pain.

Stars may burn and the wild winds whistle Over the rocks where the sea-gulls rave-- My heart is bleak as the wind-worn thistle on her seaside grave.