Page:Poems Rossetti.djvu/59

 Half he choked in the lashing spray:
Life is sweet, and the grave is grim—
  Which way?—which way?

A flash of light, a shout from the strand:
"This way—this way; here lies the land!"
His phial clutched in one drowning hand;
 He catches—misses—catches a rope;
His feet slip on the slipping sand:
  Is there life?—is there hope?

Just saved, without pulse or breath—
Scarcely saved from the gulp of death;
Laid where a willow shadoweth—
 Laid where a swelling turf is smooth.
(O Bride! but the Bridegroom lingereth
  For all thy sweet youth.)

Kind hands do and undo,
Kind voices whisper and coo:
I will chafe his hands"—"And I"—"And you
 Raise his head, put his hair aside."
(If many laugh, one well may rue:
  Sleep on, thou Bride.)

So the Prince was tended with care:
One wrung foul ooze from his clustered hair;
Two chafed his hands, and did not spare;
 But one propped his head that drooped awry:
Till his eyes oped, and at unaware
  They met eye to eye.