To greet the spring-time hours,
Since thine oar at parting flung
The white spray up in showers.
There’s a shadow of the grave on thy hearth and round thy home;
Come to me from the ocean’s dead!—thou’rt surely of them—come!”
’Twas Ulla’s voice! Alone she stood
In the Iceland summer night,
Far gazing o’er a glassy flood
From a dark rock’s beetling height.
“I know thou hast thy bed