To The Dead by Frances Anne Kemble

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On the lone waters’ shore
Wander I yet,
Brooding those moments o’er
I should forget.
Till the broad foaming surge
Warns me to fly,
While despair’s whispers urge
To stay, and die.
When the night’s solemn watch
Falls on the seas,
‘Tis thy voice that I catch
In the low breeze,
When the moon sheds her light
On things below,
Beams not her ray so bright,
Like thy young brow?
Spirit immortal! say,
When wilt thou come,
To marshal me the way
To my long home?

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