Foam is the meed of barren dreams,
And hearts that cry for peace.
Lift then, O wind, this heart of mine
And swirl aside in foam—
No, wander on, unchanging heart,
The undrowning deeps thy home.
Less than a billow of the sea
That at the last doth no more roam
Less than a wave, less than a wave
This thing that hath no home
This thing that hath no grave!
But I shall weary you. Well, forgive me....
The next letter is to Mrs. Helen Hopekirk, the Scottish-American composer, who has set several of the F. M. poems to music:
18th Oct., 1905.
My dear Mrs. Hopekirk,