Such inward storm would sometimes wake,
Naught but her gaze its power could break;
Her words could bid its fury cease,
The mother’s voice could whisper peace.
Not often thus, but the long hours
Of summer day mid birds and flowers
He’d cheerful spend, or watch the spray
Of dashing waves in their wild play.
And this, indeed, his chief delight,
When airs were bland and skies were bright.