Iv

The balm of the night and the glory, The music and scent of the sea, Are as song to her heart or a story Of the never-to-be. The stars and the night and the whiteness Of foam on the stretch of the sand; Faint foam that is tossed, like the brightness Of a mermaiden’s hand.

No sail on the ocean; no sailor On shore, and the winds all asleep; And her face in the starlight far paler Than women who weep. A mist on the deep; and the ghostly White moon in the deep of the night; And a light that is neither; that mostly Is shadow not light.

No sea-gull, that vanished with gleaming Of wings, in the swing of the spray; Perhaps it was only her dreaming, Or merely a ray Of moonlight; the glimmering essence Of all that is grayest and dim-- But never his face, or his presence That dripped in each limb.

And she cried through the night, “Let perish! O God, let me die of despair! If he whom I love, whom I cherish, Is weltering there!” She seemed but a sea-mist made woman, And he but a sound of the sea Made man where nothing was human, And never would be.