Bertha, whose lips are like rubies,
Whose hair is like coiléd gold;
Whose sweet, rare smile is tenderer
Than any legend of old.
One morn, one noon, one sunset,
Must pass before we meet;
O wind and sail bear steady on,
And bring me to her feet.
The morn rose pale and sullen,
The noon was still and dun;
Across the storm at sunset,
Came the boom of a signal-gun.
Who treads the loathsome sand-beach,
With wet, disordered hair;
With garments tangled with sea-weed,
And cheeks more pale than fair?
O blue-eyed, white-browed maiden,
He will keep love's tryst no more;
His ship sailed safely into port—
But on the heavenward shore.
POLK COUNTY HILLS.
November came that day,
And all the air was gray
With delicate mists, blown down
From hill-tops by the south wind's balmy breath;
And all the oaks were brown
As Egypt's kings in death;
The maple's crown of gold
Laid tarnished on the wold;
The alder and the ash, the aspen and the willow,
Wore tattered suits of yellow.
