“Daughter, my daughter, my girl,” I cried
  (Night is the time for the old to die),
“Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide”—­
  Dark was the welkin and wild the sky.

Heavily plunged from the roof the snow—­
  (Night is the time when the old will die),
She answered, “My mother, ’tis well, I go.” 
  Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew high.

First at his head, and last at his feet
  (Night is the time when the old should die),
Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet,
  None else that loved him, none else were nigh.

I wept in the night as the desolate weep
  (Night is the time for the old to die),
Cometh my daughter? the drifts are deep,
  Across the cold hollows how white they lie.

I sought her afar through the spectral trees
  (Night is the time when the old must die),
The fells were all muffled, the floods did freeze,
  And a wrathful moon hung red in the sky.

By night I found her where pent waves steal
  (Night is the time when the old should die),
But she lay stiff by the locked mill-wheel,
  And the old stars lived in their homes on high.

BINDING SHEAVES.

Hark! a lover binding sheaves
  To his maiden sings,
Flutter, flutter go the leaves,
  Larks drop their wings. 
Little brooks for all their mirth
  Are not blythe as he. 
“Give me what the love is worth
  That I give thee.

“Speech that cannot be forborne
  Tells the story through: 
I sowed my love in with the corn,
  And they both grew. 
Count the world full wide of girth,
  And hived honey sweet,
But count the love of more worth
  Laid at thy feet.

“Money’s worth is house and land,
  Velvet coat and vest. 
Work’s worth is bread in hand,
  Ay, and sweet rest. 
Wilt thou learn what love is worth? 
  Ah! she sits above,
Sighing, ’Weigh me not with earth,
  Love’s worth is love.’”

THE MARINER’S CAVE.

Once on a time there walked a mariner,
  That had been shipwrecked;—­on a lonely shore,
And the green water made a restless stir,
  And a great flock of mews sped on before. 
He had nor food nor shelter, for the tide
Rose on the one, and cliffs on the other side.

Brown cliffs they were; they seemed to pierce the sky,
  That was an awful deep of empty blue,
Save that the wind was in it, and on high
  A wavering skein of wild-fowl tracked it through. 
He marked them not, but went with movement slow,
Because his thoughts were sad, his courage low.

His heart was numb, he neither wept nor sighed,
  But wearifully lingered by the wave;
Until at length it chanced that he espied,
  Far up, an opening in the cliff, a cave,
A shelter where to sleep in his distress,
And lose his sorrow in forgetfulness.