Page:Poems Thaxter.djvu/130

A tiny skiff, like a cockle-shell afloat
 In the tempest-threatened bay;

With husband and brother who sailed away to the town
 When fair shone the morning sun;
To tarry but till the tide in the stream turned down,
 Then seaward again to run.

Homeward she flies; the land-breeze strikes her cold;
 A terror is in the sky;
Her little babe with his tumbled hair of gold
 In her mother's arms doth lie.

She catches him up with a breathless, questioning cry,
 "O mother, speak! Are they near?"
"Dear, almost home. At the western window high
 Thy father watches in fear."

She climbs the stair: "O father, must they be lost?"
 He answers never a word;