Page:The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter.djvu/142

Rh No smiles for your love like the tears of your sorrowing land, Only Death in his reaping could make you return no more. White birds, white birds, I dream of that glad homecoming; Though human eyes could not mark your silent flight, Women lie face down with clenched hands in the sea. (Thrice the banshee cries in the stormy night.)