But I think of a little farm slid by, and a dark girl at the ferry.
The sun dies, and a bird cries, and a bright star’s gleaming:
And I afloat, and all alone, with the long night for dreaming....
A strong stroke, and the boat leaps, and the stream swirls under;
And here am I by the still white town, in a sad, hush’d wonder.
Lovers sigh and the leaves sigh—and bright eyes peeping:
A boy laughs and a girl laughs ... and ah! who’s weeping?
1912.