Down by the harbour-mouth that day, A fisher told the tale to me. Three months before, while out at sea, Young Philip Burn was lost, though how, None knew, and none would ever know. The boat becalmed at noonday lay... And not a ripple on the sea... And Philip standing in the bow, When his six comrades went below To sleep away an hour or so, Dog-tired with working day and night, While he kept watch ... and not a sound They heard, until, at set of sun They woke; and coming up, they found The deck was empty, Philip gone... Yet not another boat in sight... And not a ripple on the sea. How he had vanished, none could tell. They only knew the lad was dead They’d left but now, alive and well... And he, poor fellow, newly-wed... And when they broke the news to her, She spoke no word to anyone: But sat all day, and would not stir-- Just staring, staring in the fire, With eyes that never seemed to tire; Until, at last, the day was done, And darkness came; when she would rise, And seek the door with queer, wild eyes; And wander singing all the night Unearthly songs beside the sea: But always the first blink of light Would find her back at her own door. ’Twas Winter when I came once more To that old village by the shore: And as, at night, I climbed the street, I heard a singing, low and sweet, Within a cottage near at hand: And I was glad awhile to stand And listen by the glowing pane: And as I hearkened, that sweet strain Brought back the night when I had lain Awake on Devil’s Edge... And now I knew the voice again, So different, free of pain and fear-- Its terror turned to tenderness-- And yet the same voice none the less, Though singing now so true and clear And drawing nigh the window-ledge, I watched the mother sing to rest The baby snuggling to her breast. THE LILAC TREE "I planted her the lilac tree Upon our wedding day: But, when the time of blossom came, With her dead babe she lay... And, as I stood beside the bed, The scent of lilac filled the room: And always when I smell the bloom, I think upon the dead." He spoke: and, speaking, sauntered on, The young girl by his side: And then they talked no more of death, But only of the happy things That burst their buds, and spread their wings, And break in song at Whitsuntide, That burst to bloom at Whitsuntide, And bring the summer in a breath.