Like the tall corn was Yanna,
    Bending and smooth and fair,—­
    His Yanna of the sea-gray eyes
    And harvest-yellow hair.

    Child of the low-voiced people
    Who dwell among the hills,
    She had the lonely calm and poise
    Of life that waits and wills.

    Only to-night a little
    With grave regard she smiled,
    Remembering the morn she woke
    And ceased to be a child.

    Outside, the ghostly rampikes,
    Those armies of the moon,
    Stood while the ranks of stars drew on
    To that more spacious noon,—­

    While over them in silence
    Waved on the dusk afar
    The gold flags of the Northern light
    Streaming with ancient war.

    And when below the headland
    The riders of the foam
    Up from the misty border rode
    The wild gray horses home,

    And woke the wintry mountains
    With thunder on the shore,
    Out of the night there came a weird
    And cried at Yanna’s door.

    “O Yanna, Adrianna,
    They buried me away
    In the blue fathoms of the deep,
    Beyond the outer bay.

    “But in the yule, O Yanna,
    Up from the round dim sea
    And reeling dungeons of the fog,
    I am come back to thee!”

    The wind slept in the forest,
    The moon was white and high,
    Only the shifting snow awoke
    To hear the yule guest cry.

    “O Yanna, Yanna, Yanna,
    Be quick and let me in! 
    For bitter is the trackless way
    And far that I have been!”

    Then Yanna by the yule log
    Starts from her dream to hear
    A voice that bids her brooding heart
    Shudder with joy and fear.

    The wind is up a moment
    And whistles at the eaves,
    And in his troubled iron dream
    The ocean moans and heaves.

    She trembles at the door-lock
    That he is come again,
    And frees the wooden bolt for one
    No barrier could detain.

    “O Garvin, bonny Garvin,
    So late, so late you come!”
    The yule log crumbles down and throws
    Strange figures on the gloom;

    But in the moonlight pouring
    Through the half-open door
    Stands the gray guest of yule and casts
    No shadow on the floor.

    The change that is upon him
    She knows not in her haste;
    About him her strong arms with glad
    Impetuous tears are laced.

    She’s led him to the fireside,
    And set the wide oak chair,
    And with her warm hands brushed away
    The sea-rime from his hair.

    “O Garvin, I have waited,—­
    Have watched the red sun sink,
    And clouds of sail come flocking in
    Over the world’s gray brink,

    “With stories of encounter
    On plank and mast and spar;
    But never the brave barque I launched
    And waved across the bar.