Читать книгу Poems - Fanny Kemble - Страница 16

On the lone waters’ shore

   Wander I yet;

Brooding those moments o’er

   I should forget.

’Till the broad foaming surge

   Warns me to fly,

While despair’s whispers urge

   To stay and die.

When the night’s solemn watch

   Falls on the seas,

’Tis thy voice that I catch

   In the low breeze;

When the moon sheds her light

   On things below,

Beams not her ray so bright,

   Like thy young brow?

Spirit immortal! say,

   When wilt thou come,

To marshal me the way

   To my long home?