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Her window opens to the bay, On glistening light or misty gray, And there at dawn and set of day In prayer she kneels.
"Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a borne From wind and wave the wanderers come; I only see the tossing foam Of stranger keels.
"Blown out and in by summer gales, The stately ships, with crowded sails, And sailors leaning o'er their rails, Before me glide; They come, they go, but nevermore, Spice-laden from the Indian shore, I see his swift-winged Isidore The waves divide.
"O Thou! with whom the night is day And one the near and far away, Look out on yon gray waste, and say Where lingers he.
Alive, perchance, on some lone beach Or thirsty isle beyond the reach Of man, he hears the mocking speech Of wind and sea.
"O dread and cruel deep, reveal The secret which thy waves conceal, And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel And tell your tale.
Let winds that tossed his raven hair A message from my lost one bear,-- Some thought of me, a last fond prayer Or dying wail! "Come, with your dreariest truth shut out The fears that haunt me round about; O God! I cannot bear this doubt That stifles breath.
The worst is better than the dread; Give me but leave to mourn my dead Asleep in trust and hope, instead Of life in death!" It might have been the evening breeze That whispered in the garden trees, It might have been the sound of seas That rose and fell; But, with her heart, if not her ear, The old loved voice she seemed to hear "I wait to meet thee: be of cheer, For all is well!" 1865.

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