For who would trust their secrets to a sieve?
I must be gone!”—And with her wild, but keen
And crafty look, that would appear to mean,
She hurried on; but turn’d again to say,
“All will be known; they anchor in the bay; 40
Adieu! be secret!—sailors have no home;
Blow wind, turn tide!—Be sure the fleet will come.”
Grown wilder still, the frantic creature strode
With hurried feet upon the flinty road.
On her departing form I gazed with pain—