Blue is the mist on the mountains,
White is the fog on the sea;
Ruby and gold is the sunset,—
And Bertha is waiting for me.
Down on the loathsome sand-beach,
Her eyes as blue as the mist;
Her brows as white as the sea-fog,—
Bertha, whose lips I have kissed.
Bertha, whose lips are like rubies,
Whose hair is like coiléd gold;
Whose sweet, rare smile is tenderer
Than any legend of old.
One morn, one noon, one sunset,
Must pass before we meet;
O wind and sail bear steady on,
And bring me to her feet.
The morn rose pale and sullen,
The noon was still and dun;
Across the storm at sunset,
Came the boom of a signal-gun.
Who treads the loathsome sand-beach,
With wet, disordered hair;
With garments tangled with sea-weed,
And cheeks more pale than fair?
O blue-eyed, white-browed maiden,
He will keep love's tryst no more;
His ship sailed safely into port—
But on the heavenward shore.