And the bright sun came up—­she thought too soon—­
And shed his ruddy light along the Mere;
And day wore on too quickly, and at noon
She came and wept beside the waters clear. 
“How could he be so late?”—­and then hope fled;
And disappointment darkened into dread.

He NEVER came, and she with weepings sore
Peered in the water-nags unceasingly;
Through all the undulations of the shore,
Looking for that which most she feared to see. 
And then she took home sorrow to her heart,
And brooded over its cold cruel smart.

And after, desolate she sat alone
And mourned, refusing to be comforted,
On the gray stone, the moss-embroidered stone,
With the great sycamore above her head;
Till after many days a broken oar
Hard by her seat was drifted to the shore.

It came,—­a token of his fate,—­the whole,
The sum of her misfortune to reveal;
As if sent up in pity to her soul,
The tidings of her widowhood to seal;
And put away the pining hope forlorn,
That made her grief more bitter to be borne.

And she was patient; through the weary day
  She toiled; though none was there her work to bless;
And did not wear the sullen months away,
  Nor call on death to end her wretchedness,
But lest the grief should overflow her breast,
She toiled as heretofore, and would not rest.

But, her work done, what time the evening star
  Rose over the cool water, then she came
To the gray stone, and saw its light from far
  Drop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame,
And wondered whether there might be the place
Where the soft ripple wandered o’er HIS face.

Unfortunate!  In solitude forlorn
 She dwelt, and thought upon her husband’s grave,
Till when the days grew short a child was born
 To the dead father underneath the wave;
And it brought back a remnant of delight,
A little sunshine to its mother’s sight;

A little wonder to her heart grown numb,
 And a sweet yearning pitiful and keen: 
She took it as from that poor father come,
 Her and the misery to stand between;
Her little maiden babe, who day by day
Sucked at her breast and charmed her woes away.

But years flew on; the child was still the same,
  Nor human language she had learned to speak: 
Her lips were mute, and seasons went and came,
  And brought fresh beauty to her tender cheek;
And all the day upon the sunny shore
She sat and mused beneath the sycamore.

Strange sympathy! she watched and wearied not,
  Haply unconscious what it was she sought;
Her mother’s tale she easily forgot,
  And if she listened no warm tears it brought;
Though surely in the yearnings of her heart
The unknown voyager must have had his part.

Unknown to her; like all she saw unknown,
  All sights were fresh as when they first began,
All sounds were new; each murmur and each tone
  And cause and consequence she could not scan,
Forgot that night brought darkness in its train,
Nor reasoned that the day would come again.