THALATTA.
Reading edition
Far over the billows unresting forever She flits, my white bird of the sea, Now skyward, now earthward, storm-drifted, but never A wing-beat nearer to me. With eye soft as death or the mist-wreaths above her She timidly gazes below; Oh, never had sea-bird a man for her lover, And little recks she of his woe. One sweet, startled note of amazement she utters, One white plume floats downward to me; Far over the billows a snowy wing flutters— Night—darkness—alone with the sea.
