Alas, for Jessie Cameron!—­
  The sea crept moaning, moaning nigher: 
She should have hastened to begone,—­
  The sea swept higher, breaking by her: 
She should have hastened to her home
  While yet the west was flushed with fire,
But now her feet are in the foam,
  The sea-foam, sweeping higher. 
O mother, linger at your door,
  And light your lamp to make it plain, 70
But Jessie she comes home no more,
  No more again.

They stood together on the strand,
  They only, each by each;
Home, her home, was close at hand,
  Utterly out of reach. 
Her mother in the chimney nook
  Heard a startled sea-gull screech,
But never turned her head to look
  Towards the darkening beach:  80
Neighbours here and neighbours there
  Heard one scream, as if a bird
Shrilly screaming cleft the air:—­
  That was all they heard.

Jessie she comes home no more,
  Comes home never;
Her lover’s step sounds at his door
  No more forever. 
And boats may search upon the sea
  And search along the river, 90
But none know where the bodies be: 
  Sea-winds that shiver,
Sea-birds that breast the blast,
  Sea-waves swelling,
Keep the secret first and last
  Of their dwelling.

Whether the tide so hemmed them round
  With its pitiless flow,
That when they would have gone they found
  No way to go; 100
Whether she scorned him to the last
  With words flung to and fro,
Or clung to him when hope was past,
  None will ever know: 
Whether he helped or hindered her,
  Threw up his life or lost it well,
The troubled sea, for all its stir
  Finds no voice to tell.

Only watchers by the dying
  Have thought they heard one pray 110
Wordless, urgent; and replying
  One seem to say him nay: 
And watchers by the dead have heard
  A windy swell from miles away,
With sobs and screams, but not a word
  Distinct for them to say: 
And watchers out at sea have caught
  Glimpse of a pale gleam here or there,
Come and gone as quick as thought,
  Which might be hand or hair. 120

SPRING QUIET

Gone were but the Winter,
  Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
  Where the birds sing;

Where in the whitethorn
  Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
  In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents
  Are the budding boughs 10
Arching high over
  A cool green house: 

Full of sweet scents,
  And whispering air
Which sayeth softly: 
  ’We spread no snare;