The Fisherman's Bride
The great grey waves, with an angry moan,
Rush in on the patient sand.
The spray from their crests is backwards blown
By the strong wind from the land.
As curls are blown from a maiden's face
And flutter behind her free,
The spindrift blows from the waves that race
From stress of the outer sea.
The restless wind has ever a sigh
And the waves are salt as tears,
Maybe because of the dead who lie
Where never the sunlight peers.
One curl of his hair is more to me
Than a thousand waves of thine,
Yet is his life in thy charge, oh, sea,
And also and therefore mine.
Great sins are written against thy name
In records of olden times.
Art thou not filled with sorrow and shame
Remembering ancient crimes?
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