ACROSS STRANGE WATERS.

These winter days, my love, are short and sad— Oh, sad and short! But future summers will not make us glad, Of Fate the sport. I go; and where we have been you abide, To face the light Of days that pour their splendor far and wide, And mock the night. How you will hate their brightness well I know— Their fragrant ways, Thick set with bloom, free winds that come and go, And birds that praise The triumph of the summer, and are glad Of their desire, Fulfilled in warmth, with mirth and music mad, And set on fire Of Love, to whom all sweet things do belong: Those new, bright days, With overflow of blossoms and glad song, You will not praise. Nor shall the swift, short nights, when skies bend low, And through the blue The white moon moves on silently and slow, Bring rest to you. The day will vex you, and the night deny Your idle prayer: Shall I, across strange waters, hear your cry, And be aware?