“O, never shall I drive him back to anguish,
My soul shall suffer, letting his go free.”
She rose, and weeping, left the little chapel.
Went forward blindly till she reached the sea.
She dug a grave within the surf and shingle,
A dark, cold bed, made very deep and wide.
She laid her down all stiff and stretched for burial,
Right in the pathway of the rising tide.
First tossed into her waiting arms the restless
Loud waves, a woman very grey and cold,
Within her bed she stood upright so quickly,
And loosed her fingers from the dead hands' hold.
The second who upon her heart had rested
From out the storm, a baby chill and stark,
With one long sob she drew it on her bosom.
Then thrust it out again into the dark.
The last who came so slow was her own lover;
She kissed his icy face on cheek and chin,
“O cold shall be your house to-night, beloved,
O cold the bed that we must sleep within.
“And heavy, heavy, on our lips so faithful
And on our hearts, shall lie our own roof-tree.”
And as she spoke the bitter tears were falling
On his still face, all Salter than the sea.
“And oh,” she said, “if for a little moment
You knew, my cold, dead love, that I was by.
That my soul goes into the utter darkness
When yours comes forth—and mine goes in to die.”
And as she wept she kissed his frozen forehead,
Laid her warm lips upon his mouth so chill,
With no response—and then the waters flowing
Into their grave, grew heavy, deep, and still.
* * *
