14
INSIDE PLUM ISLAND.
A flight of fluting echoes, sent With elfin carol o'er us—More blithe than bird-song in the prime Rang out the sea-blown chorus.
Behind those dunes the storms had heaped In all fantastic fashion,Who syllabled our songs in strains Remote from human passion?
What tones were those that caught our own, Filtered through light and distance,And tossed them gayly to and fro- With such a sweet insistence?
What shoal of sea-sprites, to the sun Along the margin flocking,Dripping with salt dews from the deeps, Made this melodious mocking?
We laughed—a hundred voices rose In airiest fairiest laughter;We sang—a hundred voices quired And sang the whole song after.
