III

As a lorn sailor clinging to the wreck,
On which he starved through many a doleful day,
Sees o'er the waves, as evening turns to grey,
The far horizon bear one glittering speck,
Hope fires his heart; with eager, outstretched neck,
He scans the sail; she bears across his way;
A stone-cast off he marks her trim array,
Hears merry laughter pealing from her deck.
His brandished arms, his tears, his desperate cry
Are vain, unmarked. As with a blow, his flame
Of hope is quenched; the sail has passed him by.
So, nigh my darkly drifting heart, you came
In all your beauty. Was I mad, that I
Hoped to be marked? I grieve, I cannot blame.