To Her Absent Sailor

John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892)

From “The Tent on the Beach”

HER window opens to the bay,

On glistening light or misty gray,

And there at dawn and set of day

In prayer she kneels:

“Dear Lord!” she saith, “to many a home

From wind and wave the wanderers come;

I only see the tossing foam

Of stranger keels.

“Blown out and in by summer gales,

The stately ships, with crowded sails,

And sailors leaning o’er their rails,

Before me glide;

They come, they go, but nevermore,

Spice-laden from the Indian shore,

I see his swift-winged Isidore

The waves divide.

“O Thou! with whom the night is day

And one the near and far away,

Look out on yon gray waste, and say

Where lingers he.

Alive, perchance, on some lone beach

Or thirsty isle beyond the reach

Of man, he hears the mocking speech

Of wind and sea.

“O dread and cruel deep, reveal

The secret which thy waves conceal,

And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel

And tell your tale.

Let winds that tossed his raven hair

A message from my lost one bear,—

Some thought of me, a last fond prayer

Or dying wail!

“Come, with your dreariest truth shut out

The fears that haunt me round about;

O God! I cannot bear this doubt

That stifles breath.

The worst is better than the dread;

Give me but leave to mourn my dead

Asleep in trust and hope, instead

Of life in death!”

It might have been the evening breeze

That whispered in the garden trees,

It might have been the sound of seas

That rose and fell;

But, with her heart, if not her ear,

The old loved voice she seemed to hear:

“I wait to meet thee: be of cheer,

For all is well!”

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