Somehow I feel to-morrow we may die.
Come just as far as to the blacksmith's light.'
But 'No' said Anna; 'Not to-night. Good-night.'
All the tides triumph when the white moon fills.
Down in the race the toppling waters shout,
The breakers shake the bases of the hills,
There is a thundering where the streams go out,
And the wise shipman puts his ship about
Seeing the gathering of those waters wan,
But what when love makes high tide in a man?