A cove he spied at sunset’s edge,
With pleasant trees and margin-sedge;
And barefoot went by stakes down-driven
Thro’ shallows wading from the ledge,
The boat drawn after; but behold!
A check fell on his venture bold:
He stood imprisoned, vainly leading
The ropes in whitening fingers old.
Within that black and marshy sound
His weight had sunken; he was bound
Knee-deep! and as he beat and struggled,
The mocking ripples danced around.
Long since the wood-thrush ceased her song;
The summer wind grew fierce and strong;
The shuddering moon went into hiding;
Down came the storm to wreak him wrong.
Against the prow he leaned his chin,
Thinking of all his strength had been;
Then turned, and laughed with courage steady:
‘O ho! what straits we twain are in!’
And strove anew, unterrified,
But lastly, wearied wholly, cried
For succor, since his laden wherry
Rocked ever on the coming tide.
. . . . . . . . . .
‘I hear a cry of anguish sore!’
But straight his love had barred the door:
‘Bide here; the night bodes naught but danger.’
Loud beat the waves along the shore.
A bedded child made soft behest:
‘So loud the voice I cannot rest.’
‘It is the rain, dear, in the garden.’
The cruel water binds his breast.
‘A lamp, a lamp! some traveller’s lost!’
But thro’ the tavern roared the host:
‘Nay, only thunder rude and heavy.’
Close to his lips the foam is tossed.