In the summer even
While yet the dew was hoar
I went plucking purple pansies
Till my love should come to shore
The fishing lights their dances
Were coming out at sea
And “Come,” I sung, “my true love
Come hasten home to me.”
But the sea it fell a-moaning
And the white gulls rocked thereon
And the young moon dropped from heaven
And the lights hid one by one
And silently their glances
Slipped down the cruel sea
And, “Wait,” cried the night, and wind, and storm
“Wait till I come to thee!”