Constance and Martuccio
Until where thorns once caught her feet
Thin rushes bent, and at the noise
The timid lizards made retreat,
And wild duck rose, fearing decoys ;
She looked, and lo ! the trees were gone
And overhead the white moon shone.
And wet the earth shone, that the sea destroys.
She followed where the waters led,
(Grown wide and shallow) o'er the sands.
The north-wind whistled round her head
And clasped her close with airy hands,
Fain to forget the drowning cries
Of sailors and their widows' sighs.
And caught her hair and loosed it from its bands.
At last, behold on either side
And all before her waters were,
White waters desolate and wide.
And here the wind blew roughlier.
She leant against a tall black stake
Of driftwood—such as fishers make.
To keep their boats safe when they are not there.
She kissed her ring and looking down.
She wept such shallow waves to see.
So shallow that they could not drown—
"How shall I die and come to thee,
My lost Martuccio ! " she cried.
And then a twisted rope she spied
That held to a stake some boatlet out at sea.
She strained upon it with her hands
That left red stains where they had stayed;
Her feet go sinking through the sands,
And through the out-drifting waters wade;
She reached the boat, she slipt the rope,
And, taking leave of life and hope.
Lay down upon the planks, and dreamed, and prayed.
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