Here a limb protruding,
An arm there cuts the wave,
A luckless, hapless woman
At last has found her grave.
To the mossy banks they bore her,
And dug a grave in haste
Where the two field-paths are crossing,
In the rye field’s yellow waste.
She was to have no tomb stone,
No restful mound was made,
Naught but a heavy boulder
Above her head was laid.
No boulder e’er so heavy
Can lie with so much weight,
As lies the curse of inner guilt,
Upon her name of hate.
THE WATER SPRITE
O’er the lake on a poplar dreaming,
A water-sprite sits of an evening:
“Shine moon-beam, shine on,
Help me thread my yarn.”
A pair of stout shoes I am sewing
For dry land and watery going:
“Shine moon-beam, shine on,
Help me thread my yarn.”
This is Thursday, Friday’s coming,
My new frock-coat I am sewing:
“Shine moon-beam, shine on,
Help me thread my yarn.”
Bright red shoes, a coat green as the sea,
Tomorrow shall my wedding be:
“Shine moon-beam, shine on,
Help me thread my yarn.”
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