THE BROTHER'S HAND.
49
No matter. In a wedded year or two,
In a far Western land a cottage rose,
With sand and sea and sea-shell shining through
Its many windows—so the story goes.
Frederick was happy there. But his late bride
Had backward-yearning eyes, and sometimes sighed
A little—as all women may? Who knows?
In a far Western land a cottage rose,
With sand and sea and sea-shell shining through
Its many windows—so the story goes.
Frederick was happy there. But his late bride
Had backward-yearning eyes, and sometimes sighed
A little—as all women may? Who knows?
Once bitterly he asked: "What makes you sad?"
She answered languidly: "Perhaps the sea.
I sometimes think it surely has gone mad:
It foams and mutters till it frightens me.
Sometimes when it looks only golden, and
All things look golden in this Golden Land,
Blackly below it threatens things to be."
She answered languidly: "Perhaps the sea.
I sometimes think it surely has gone mad:
It foams and mutters till it frightens me.
Sometimes when it looks only golden, and
All things look golden in this Golden Land,
Blackly below it threatens things to be."
And, as her childish words failed at her lip,
From silks and spices and a foreign sail,
She saw a man drop from a landing ship
As heavily as he had been a bale
Of precious merchant-freight. With the great light
Of the great evening smitten, he was bright—
But all who looked at him were dull and pale.
From silks and spices and a foreign sail,
She saw a man drop from a landing ship
As heavily as he had been a bale
Of precious merchant-freight. With the great light
Of the great evening smitten, he was bright—
But all who looked at him were dull and pale.
