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bertha.
Below her as if with endless hope,
Up the beach's marbled slope,
The waters clomb unweariedly.
Up the beach's marbled slope,
The waters clomb unweariedly.
Many a long-bleached sail in sight,
Hovered awhile, then flitted away
Beyond the opening of the bay.
Fair Bertha entered her cottage late:
"He does not come," she said, and smiled,
"But the shore is dark and the sea is wild,
And, dearest Father, we still must wait."
Hovered awhile, then flitted away
Beyond the opening of the bay.
Fair Bertha entered her cottage late:
"He does not come," she said, and smiled,
"But the shore is dark and the sea is wild,
And, dearest Father, we still must wait."
She hastened to her inner room,
And silently mused there alone:
"Three springs have come—three winters gone,
And still we wait from hour to hour;
But earth waits long for her harvest time,
And the aloe, in the northern clime,
Waits an hundred years for its flower.
And silently mused there alone:
"Three springs have come—three winters gone,
And still we wait from hour to hour;
But earth waits long for her harvest time,
And the aloe, in the northern clime,
Waits an hundred years for its flower.
