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But, with her heart, if not her ear,
The old loved voice she seemed to hear :
I wait to meet thee : be of cheer
For all is well !”

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

TO LUCASTA.

Her window opens to the bay,
On glistening light or misty gray,
And there at dawn and set of day

In prayer she kneels :
"Dear Lord !” she saith, “to many a home
From wind and wave the wanderers come;
I only see the tossing foam

Of stranger keels.
“Blown out and in by summer gales,
The stately ships, with crowded sails,
And sailors leaning o'er their rails,

Before me glide;
They come, they go, but nevermore,
Spice-laden from the Indian shore,
I see his swift-winged Isidore

The waves divide.

“O thou ! with whom the night is day And one the near and far away, Look out on yon gray waste, and say

Where lingers he. Alive, perchance, on some lone beach Or thirsty isle beyond the reach Of man, he hears the mocking speech

Of wind and sea.

IF to be absent were to be

Away from thee;
Or that, when I am gone,

You or I were alone;
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.
But I'll not sigh one blast or gale

To swell my sail,
Or pay a tear to 'suage

The foaming blue-god's rage ;
For, whether he will let me pass
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.
Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both,

Our faith and troth,
Like separated souls,

All time and space controls :
Above the highest sphere we meet,
Unseen, unknown ; and greet as angels greet.
So, then, we do anticipate

Our after-fate,
And are alive i' th' skies,

If thus our lips and eyes
Can speak like spirits unconfined
In heaven, — their earthly bodies left behind.

COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE.

“O dread and cruel deep, reveal
The secret which thy waves conceal,
And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel

And tell your tale.
Let winds that tossed his raven hair
A message from my lost one bear,
Some thought of me, a last fond prayer

Or dying wail !
"Come, with your dreaviest truth shut out
The fears that haunt me round about ;
O God! I cannot bear this doubt

That stifles breath.
The worst is better than the dread;
Give me but leave to mourn my dead
Asleep in trust and hope, instead

Of life in death !"

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It might have been the evening breeze
That whispered in the garden trees,
It might have been the sound of seas

That rose and fell ;

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