Dora Sigerson Shorter

“ 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 aay to day,
⁠⁠“Comfort my dead,
The sport of the winds and the play of the sea.” ”

“ I stand and stretch my hands to thee
⁠⁠Across the world.
The riderless horses race to shore
With thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar,
⁠⁠Blown manes uncurled.
Cean duv deelish, I cry to thee
Beyond the world, beneath the sea,
⁠⁠Thou being dead. ”