Now half-way over the sky-blue lake
Hath paddled the wild red girl;
Kneeling, a wearied arm she rests,—
The waters round her curl.
Away she looks, with beating heart,
Away to the purple isle;
Beneath it swings a bright round moon;
She listeneth all the while,—
Heard she one far shrill whistle-sound,
Her sadness were a smile.