  Can doov deelish, beside the sea I stand and stretch my hands to thee The riderless horses race to shore With thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar, Blown manes uncurled. Can doov deelish, I cry to thee Beyond the world, beneath the sea, Thou being dead. Where hast thou hidden from the beat Of crushing hoofs and tearing feet Thy dear black head? God bless the woman, whoever she be, From the tossing waves will recover thee And lashing wind. Who will take thee out of the wind and storm, Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm And lips so kind? I not to know. It is hard to pray, But I shall for this woman from day to day, 'Comfort my dead, The sport of the winds and the play of the sea.' I loved thee too well for this thing to be, O dear black head! Dora Sigerson |
|
