Tell me thy secret, O Sea,
The mystery sealed in thy breast;
Come, breathe it in whispers to me,
A child of thy fevered unrest.
It's midnight, and from me has sleep
Flown afar, like a bird on the wing,
All tired is my heart as I weep
Through a winter that knows not a spring.
Why dost thou respond to my plea
With only a minor refrain?
Thy voice in a moan floats to me,
As an echo sobbed from my pain.
Hast thou a grief, too, like mine,
That never heals with the years;
A bosom entombing a shrine
Bedewed with the waste of thy tears?
Where lies my loved one to-night
Beneath thy grey mantle so wide?
I would that his slumber were light,
To wake with the flow of the tide.
Should he not wake, bear him this,
An amaranth plucked from my heart;
Wreathe it soft in his dreams with a kiss,
Then return, and ere I depart.
On the flood of my soul's overflow.
Borne on by my grief from the wild
Of this storm-beaten life, let me know,
How he slept; let me know if he smiled.