Down on the loathsome sand-beach,
Her eyes as blue as the mist;
Her brows as white as the sea-fog,—
Bertha, whose lips I have kissed.
Bertha, whose lips are like rubies,
Whose hair is like coiléd gold;
Whose sweet, rare smile is tenderer
Than any legend of old.
One morn, one noon, one sunset,
Must pass before we meet;