The waves beat idly, with a ceaseless roar,
And to and fro the seaweed bends to me,
Kissing the great red rocks along the shore,
But thou, belovèd, art not here to see.
The sun goes down in glory in the west,
Bathing in crimson every flower and tree,
The white sails redden on the ocean's breast,
But thou, belovèd, art not here to see.
The twilight gathers and the moon rides high;
I watch its silver track and think of thee;
God keep thy path as bright from earth to sky,
When I, belovèd, am not here to see.
