128
ALL'S WELL.
A tiny skiff, like a cockle-shell afloat
In the tempest-threatened bay;
In the tempest-threatened bay;
With husband and brother who sailed away to the town
When fair shone the morning sun;
To tarry but till the tide in the stream turned down,
Then seaward again to run.
When fair shone the morning sun;
To tarry but till the tide in the stream turned down,
Then seaward again to run.
Homeward she flies; the land-breeze strikes her cold;
A terror is in the sky;
Her little babe with his tumbled hair of gold
In her mother's arms doth lie.
A terror is in the sky;
Her little babe with his tumbled hair of gold
In her mother's arms doth lie.
She catches him up with a breathless, questioning cry,
"O mother, speak! Are they near?"
"Dear, almost home. At the western window high
Thy father watches in fear."
"O mother, speak! Are they near?"
"Dear, almost home. At the western window high
Thy father watches in fear."
She climbs the stair: "O father, must they be lost?"
He answers never a word;
He answers never a word;