That rode on sunny waves or beat their wings,
Storm-driven, ’gainst the sea-washed beacon-light.
Delighting in sad tales, wide-eyed she gazed,
Yet fearing, half, their ends might be too sad;
Still, bidding e’er, with doubtful joy in grief,
The repetition of each dolorous strain.
Then, choosing ’mong my books some pictured page,
She took my Roman missal on her knee,
Turned o’er its many pages one by one,
Seeking the prints that there lay interleaved,