I

         The curtains now are drawn,
         And the spindrift strikes the glass,
         Blown up the jagged pass
         By the surly salt sou’-west,
         And the sneering glare is gone
         Behind the yonder crest,
                 While she sings to me:
“O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,
And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,
And death may come, but loving is divine.”

II

         I stand here in the rain,
         With its smite upon her stone,
         And the grasses that have grown
         Over women, children, men,
         And their texts that “Life is vain”;
         But I hear the notes as when
                 Once she sang to me:
“O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,
And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,
And death may come, but loving is divine.”