And I was still, thy voice enshrouding me. 
      Like the strong sweep of ocean-breath the power
      Of one resistless thought transformed my hour
    Of love-dreams to a fear.  All hopelessly
      I knew love’s impotence, and my despair
      Stretched soul-hands forth, and quivered to a prayer.

    My passionate heart cried out:  “If his dear life
      Through stress of keen temptation merits aught
      Of penance or requital, be it wrought
    Upon my life.  If only through the strife
      Is won the peace, through drudgery the gain,
      Give him the issue, and to me the pain!”

    Some day, in our soul’s course o’er trackless lands,
      Swayed oft by adverse winds, or swept along
      In Fate’s wild current with the fluttering throng
    Towards Sin’s engulfing maelstrom, spirit hands
      Will brace our trembling wings, and through the night
      Point and upbear in our last trembling flight.

Song.

    Red gleams the mountain ridge,
      Slow the stream creeps
    Under the old bent bridge,
      And labor sleeps.

    There are no restless birds,
      No leaves that stir,
    Dusk her gray mantle girds,
      Night’s harbinger.

    The storm-soul’s change and start
      Pause, lull, and cease;
    In my unquiet heart
      Is born a peace.

Loneliness.

    Dear, I am lonely, for the bay is still
      As any hill-girt lake; the long brown beach
      Lies bare and wet.  As far as eye can reach
    There is no motion.  Even on the hill
      Where the breeze loves to wander I can see
      No stir of leaves, nor any waving tree.

    There is a great red cliff that fronts my view
      A bare, unsightly thing; it angers me
      With its unswerving-grim monotony. 
    The mackerel weir, with branching boughs askew
      Stands like a fire-swept forest, while the sea
      Laps it, with soothing sighs, continually.

    There are no tempests in this sheltered bay,
      The stillness frets me, and I long to be
      Where winds sweep strong and blow tempestuously,
    To stand upon some hill-top far away
      And face a gathering gale, and let the stress
      Of Nature’s mood subdue my restlessness.

    An impulse seizes me, a mad desire
      To tear away that red-browed cliff, to sweep
      Its crest of trees and huts into the deep;
    To force a gap by axe, or storm, or fire,
      And let rush in with motion glad and free
      The rolling waves of the wild wondrous sea.

    Sometimes I wonder if I am the child
      Of calm, law-loving parents, or a stray
      From some wild gypsy camp.  I cannot stay
    Quiet among my fellows; when this wild
      Longing for freedom takes me I must fly
      To my dear woods and know my liberty.