The Conservative (Lovecraft)/July 1919/Bereft
Bereft
By Agnes Richmond Arnold
He rideth up: he rideth up;
The red, red sun o’er a glassy sea;
And there be ships as will gang a-wrack,
And lads as will never come sailing back
To their true, true loves in their ain countree.
They tell it oft at break of day—
The wise old tars who have sail’d the main—
“When the blood-red sun climbs the heavens’ dome,
The storm will gather and fret to foam
The merciless sea ere he sets again.”
They say it now and will say it aye—
The wise, wise ones who have watch’d in vain—
“The heart that awaits a lover’s return,
O’er the waves that swell and the seas that churn,
Is the heart that bears its burden of pain.”
He rideth low; he rideth low;
The lurid sun o’er a choppy sea;
And the black, black night comes a-swooping down
Where true-loves wait in the spray-swept town
For those afar from their ain countree.
