Page:The Seaside and the Fireside.djvu/58



Close, close it is pressed to the window, As if those childish eyes Were looking into the darkness, To see some form arise.

And a woman's waving shadow Is passing to and fro, Now rising to the ceiling, Now bowing and bending low.

What tale do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, bleak and wild, As they beat at the crazy casement, Tell to that little child?

And why do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the color from her cheek?