Bleak, bleak the tide, and evening coming on;
And gray the pale, pale light that wans thy face.
Solemnly breaks the long wave at thy feet;
And sullenly in patches clings the snow
Upon the low, red rocks worn round with years.
I see thine eyes, I see their grave desire,
Unsatisfied and lonely as the sea’s;—
Yet how unlike the wintry sea’s despair!
For could my feet but follow, thine, my hands
But reach for thy warm hands beneath thy cloak,