BY ISABELLA HOWE FISK.
“Carry the lad that was born to be king over the sea to Skye.”
Thoughts wait upon me, grateful thoughts that throng
Prayer-wise and eager. To the master’s feet
I fain would speed them, offering tribute meet.
But, mute for very love, I cannot voice my song.
Dear chief of utterance, I have lingered long
As at deep wells in shimmering noons of heat,
And like dumb beasts that drain the waters sweet,
I, too, have quenched my thirst, and, silent have grown strong.