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A MARCH EVENING
The night steals down upon the sea,
Mystery unto mystery.
So late? And we are due at home,
Rover, ere night be fully come!
Whew! Bitter blows the wind and shrill,
As we turn inland, up the hill
With its one cottage—snug, no doubt,
Inside, but grim and grey without;
Save where yon line of light shoots thro’
The good green shutter, half-pull’d to
On father’s meal and tiny prayers
Said in the warmth to-night downstairs;
God bless them!
Ay, but does she wait,
Quit fire and lamp, and sigh, “He’s late!”
To the cold pane? Come on, lad!
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