II
A little garden gay with phlox,
Blue corn-flowers, yellow hollyhocks,
Red poppies, pink and purple stocks,
Looks over Tantramar.
Pale yellow drops the road before
The hospitable cottage-door,—
A yellow, upland road, and o’er
The green marsh seeks the low red shore
And winding dykes afar.
Beyond the marsh, and miles away,
The great tides of the tumbling bay
Swing glittering in the golden day,
Swing foaming to and fro;
And nearer, in a nest of green,
A little turbid port is seen,
Where pitch-black fishing-boats careen,
Left when the tide runs low.
The little port is safe and fit.
About its wharf the plover flit,
The grey net-reels loom over it,
With grass about their feet.
In wave and storm it hath no part,
This harbour in the marshes’ heart;
Behind its dykes, at peace, apart
It hears the surges beat.
The garden hollyhocks are tall;
They tower above the garden wall,
And see, far down, the port, and all
The creeks, and marshes wide;
But Margery, Margery,
’Tis something further thou wouldst see!
Bid all thy blooms keep watch with thee
Across the outmost tide.
Bid them keep wide their starry eyes
To warn thee should a white sail rise,
Slow climbing up, from alien skies,
The azure round of sea.
He sails beneath a stormy star;
The waves are wild, the Isles afar;
Summer is ripe on Tantramar,
And yet returns not he.
Long, long thine eyes have watched in vain,
Waited in fear, and wept again.
Is it no more than lover’s pain
That makes thy heart so wild?
At dreams within the cottage door
The old man’s eyes are lingering o’er
The little port,—the far-off shore,—
His dear and only child.
And at her spinning-wheel within
The mother’s hands forget to spin.
With loving voice she calls thee in,—
Her dear and only child.
To leave the home-dear hearts to ache
Was not for thee, though thine should break.
For their dear sake, for their dear sake,
Thou wouldst not go with him.
But always wise, and strong, and free,
Is given to which of us to be?—
A gathering shadow, Margery,
Makes all thy daylight dim!
Yet surely soon will break the day
For which thine anxious waitings pray,—
His sails, athwart the yellow bay,
Shall cleave the sky’s blue rim.