Their likeness to the parent Sea,
Mother of Sorrows she,
Sister to Death and Change.
And scarce my heart can bear the aching stress
Of such remote and wistful loveliness.
—Nor would I yield them even to the grace
Of her whom I adore,
My Lady of the Blessed Face,
Were it not ancient lore
That when the sea-sprites win a mortal's love
They gain a soul thereby
In guerdon from above.
And when at last they lie
Those foam-white breasts of hers between
Something of her own spirit star-serene
Must with a new
More holy grace their elfin charm endue.
Mother of Sorrows she,
Sister to Death and Change.
And scarce my heart can bear the aching stress
Of such remote and wistful loveliness.
—Nor would I yield them even to the grace
Of her whom I adore,
My Lady of the Blessed Face,
Were it not ancient lore
That when the sea-sprites win a mortal's love
They gain a soul thereby
In guerdon from above.
And when at last they lie
Those foam-white breasts of hers between
Something of her own spirit star-serene
Must with a new
More holy grace their elfin charm endue.
SUNSET ON THE MARSHES
No wind bends the yellowing grasses,
But the small pools glitter and tremble
As though the marsh-queen had broken her necklace
Scattering far and wide
Its garnets and spinel-rubies.
Barbaric in color the mosses,
Burnt orange, vermilion, umber—
Yet here beside my foot
Is a tiny patch that glimmers
Like a constellation of fairy stars
Carved each of pale emerald.
But the small pools glitter and tremble
As though the marsh-queen had broken her necklace
Scattering far and wide
Its garnets and spinel-rubies.
Barbaric in color the mosses,
Burnt orange, vermilion, umber—
Yet here beside my foot
Is a tiny patch that glimmers
Like a constellation of fairy stars
Carved each of pale emerald.
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