She flits, my white bird of the sea,
Now skyward, now earthward, storm-drifted, but never
A wing-beat nearer to me.
With eye soft as death or the mist-wreaths above her
She timidly gazes below;
Oh, never had sea-bird a man for her lover,
And little recks she of his woe.
One sweet, startled note of amazement she utters,
One white plume floats downward to me;
Far over the billows a snowy wing flutters—