BALLAD

by: Harriet Prescott Spofford (1835-1921)

N the summer even,

While yet the dew was hoar,

I went plucking purple pansies,

Till my Love should come to shore.

The fishing-lights their dances

Were keeping out at sea,

And come, I sang, my true love,

Come hasten home to me!

 

But the sea, it fell a-moaning,

And the white gulls rocked thereon;

And the young moon dropped from heaven,

And the lights hid one by one.

All silently their glances

Slipped down the cruel sea,

And wait! cried the night and wind and storm,--

Wait, till I come to thee!

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