For the love of lovely things
Must quench all bitterness,
And whilst the robin sings
No heart is comfortless.
THE BALLAD OF A SEA-NYMPH
Where the water meets the sands
All alone sat she,
Wrung her hair with chilly hands
That glimmered mistily.
Phosphorescent were the drips
From her hair she wrung,
And like moonlight on her lips
Were the words she sung.
White she was, as white as foam
'Neath a moonlit sky,
And the treasures of her home
On her brow did lie.
There he found her, he, a man,
Wandering by the sea,
And desire through him ran—
Misty-white was she.
There he wooed her, wooed her long,
Till, within her eyes,
Where were erst moonshine and song,
Dawned in slow surprise
Mortal pain and mortal doubt,
Shades of misery,
And she turned her round about,
Facing from the sea.
In his hand her hand she laid,
As to land they turned,
And her hand of sea-foam made
'Neath his fingers burned.