"The strand is this, the sea is this, The grey bent and the mountains grey; But no mound here his grave-mound is; Where have they borne my love away?" "What man is this with shield and spear Comes riding down the bent to us? A goodly man forsooth he were But for his visage piteous." "Ghost of my love, so kind of yore, Art thou not somewhat gladder grown To feel my feet upon this shore? O love, thou shalt not long be lone." "Ghost of my love, each day I come To see where God first wrought us wrong: Now kind thou com'st to call me home. Be sure I shall not tarry long." "Come here, my love; come here for rest, So sore as my body longs for thee! My heart shall beat against thy breast, As arms of thine shall comfort me." "Love, let thy lips depart no more From those same eyes they once did kiss, The very bosom wounded sore When sorrow clave the heart of bliss!" O was it day, or was it night, As there they told their love again? The high-tide of the sun's delight, Or whirl of wind and drift of rain? "Speak sweet, my love, of how it fell, And how thou cam'st across the sea, And what kind heart hath served thee well, And who thy borrow there might be?" Naught but the wind and sea made moan As hastily she turned her round; From light clouds wept the morn alone, Not the dead corpse upon the ground. "O look, my love, for here is he Who once of all the world was kind, And led my sad heart o'er the sea! And now must he be left behind." She kissed his lips that yet did smile, She kissed his eyes that were not sad: "O thou who sorrow didst beguile, And now wouldst have me wholly glad! "A little gift is this," she said, "Thou once hadst deemed great gift enow; Yet surely shalt thou rest thine head Where I one day shall lie alow. "There shalt thou wake to think of me, And by thy face my face shall find; And I shall then thy borrow be When all the world is left behind." THE FOLK-MOTE BY THE RIVER It was up in the morn we rose betimes From the hall-floor hard by the row of limes. It was but John the Red and I, And we were the brethren of Gregory; And Gregory the Wright was one Of the valiant men beneath the sun, And what he bade us that we did For ne'er he kept his counsel hid. So out we went, and the clattering latch Woke up the swallows under the thatch. It was dark in the porch, but our scythes we felt, And thrust the whetstone under the belt. Through the cold garden boughs we went Where the tumbling roses shed their scent. Then out a-gates and away we strode O'er the dewy straws on the dusty road, And there was the mead by the town-reeve's close Where the hedge was sweet with the wilding rose. Then into the mowing grass we went Ere the very last of the night was spent. Young was the moon, and he was gone, So we whet our scythes by the stars alone: But or ever the long blades felt the hay Afar in the East the dawn was grey. Or ever we struck our earliest stroke The thrush in the hawthorn-bush awoke.