White bones among the mangroves glisten dimly,
Drift with the water, in the sunshine bleach,
While the gaunt ribs of wreckage rising grimly
Guard the forlornness of the wind-swept beach.
Inland, among the fern and seeding grasses
Where the Acacia, silken-tasselled, waves,
The summer wind sighs softly as it passes
Over the green of half forgotten graves.
Little I heed; my eyes gaze ever seaward,
Straining to glimpse the ship I never see,
My constant soul, set like a compass, theeward,
Even as thine was always turned from me.
Ah, how I loved thee! Hoping to forget thee,
Where are the things I did not vainly try?
But every cell and fibre still regret thee,
Even in death remembrance will not die.
If thou shouldst seek me (though thou comest never,
My hopes, like Lighthouse rays, stream forth to thee)
Thou wouldst still find me faithful, watching ever,
Or buried with my face towards the sea.
64
