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184
FALLEN FRUIT.
But the waves roll ever—
Over my dead are the proud waves rolled.
Over my dead are the proud waves rolled.
III.
O swift and angry sea,
Surge on and whelm my soul!
For the last bird flies from the barren tree,
And I yearn for the sailor's dreamless goal.
I will sit no more in my chamber door:
O billows of ocean swift and cold,
Ye shall drag me down from the rocky shore,
Where my love lies mute as the songs of old!—
So the waves roll ever:
Over the dead are the proud waves rolled!
O swift and angry sea,
Surge on and whelm my soul!
For the last bird flies from the barren tree,
And I yearn for the sailor's dreamless goal.
I will sit no more in my chamber door:
O billows of ocean swift and cold,
Ye shall drag me down from the rocky shore,
Where my love lies mute as the songs of old!—
So the waves roll ever:
Over the dead are the proud waves rolled!
