THE OLD CRY
IF only ages ago
I had buried my restless heart
Under mountains of snow
In a lonely place apart,
I could bring it now to her,
Locked with a silver key;
And its shadowy pearls would never stir
From that sweet sanctuary.
Oh wind that wafted my boat
To the isles where the Sirens sing,
Somewhere — washed up upon sands remote
Those pearls he glittering.
Gather them, gather them up,
Oh wind, and bring them to me
In a misty foam-wreathed cup —
The pearls that I lost in the sea.
Dim with the salt are they,
Blurred and bleached with the sun;
But, gathered from far away.
Bring them back, every one;
That Iain once more at rest
Where her heart beats and feels.
They may sleep forever against her breast,
Sealed with a thousand seals!
