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 With vesture she wove on the loom Four-coloured to be, And lanterns she trimmed with her hair To light them to sea. Oh, far have the living ones gone, And further the dead, For spirits come never to watch The fisherwife's bed; And sonless she sits at the hearth, And peers in the flame, She knows that their fishing must come As ever it came— A fishing that never set home, But seaways it led, For God who has taken her sons Has buried her dead.

THE HUNTERS

"The Devil, as a roaring lion, goeth about seeking whom he may devour."

The Lion, he prowleth far and near. Nor swerves for pain or rue; He heedeth nought of sloth nor fear, He prowleth—prowleth through The silent glade and the weary street, In the empty dark and the full noon heat; And a little Lamb with aching feet— He prowleth too.