I
THE opal and the sapphire of that wandering western sea,
- And the woman riding high above with bright hair flapping free–
- The woman whom I loved so, and who loyally loved me.
-
- II
-
- The pale mews plained below us, and the waves seemed far away
- In a nether sky, engrossed in saying their ceaseless babbling say,
- As we laughed light-heartedly aloft in that clear-sunned March day.
-
- III
-
- A little cloud then cloaked us, and there flew an irised rain,
- And the Atlantic dyed its levels with a dull misfeatured stain,
- And then the sun burst out again, and purples prinked the main.
-
- IV
-
- –Still in all its chasmal beauty bulks old Beeny to the sky,
- And shall she and I not go there once again now March is nigh,
- And the sweet things said in that March say anew there by and by?
-
- V
-
- What if still in chasmal beauty looms that wild weird western shore,
- The woman now is–elsewhere–whom the ambling pony bore,
- And nor knows nor cares for Beeny, and will laugh there nevermore.
