Floats one white cloud above the drowsy land.
August, the month of virgins, is at hand.
Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy,—
Scarce heeds the softly murmurous tide,
Fair sky, nor aught beside;
Gazing afar, half troubled, half content,
Awaits with folded hands a message sent
Across the gleaming, restless, longing sea,—
Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy.