But always wise, and strong, and free,
Is given to which of us to be?—
A gathering shadow, Margery,
Makes all thy daylight dim!
Yet surely soon will break the day
For which thine anxious waitings pray,—
His sails, athwart the yellow bay,
Shall cleave the sky’s blue rim.
III
To-night the wind roars in from sea;
The crow clings in the straining tree;
Curlew and crane and bittern flee
The dykes of Tantramar.
To-night athwart an inky sky
A narrowing sun dropped angrily,
Scoring the gloom with dreadful dye,
A bitter and flaming scar.
But ere night falls, across the tide
A close-reefed barque has been descried,
And word goes round the country-side—
‘The “Belle” is in the bay!’
And ere the loud night closes down
Upon that light’s terrific frown,
Along the dyke, with blowing gown,
She takes her eager way.
Just where his boat will haste to land,
On the open wharf she takes her stand.
Her pale hair blows from out its band.
She does not heed the storm.
Her blinding joy of heart they know
Who so have fared, and waited so.
She heeds not what the winds that blow;
She does not feel the storm.
But fiercer roars the gale. The night
With cloud grows black, with foam gleams white
The creek boils to its utmost height.
The port is seething full.