In the Morning by Willis Boyd Allen - HTML preview

THALATTA.

Far over the billows unresting forever

She flits, my white bird of the sea,

Now skyward, now earthward, storm-drifted, but never

A wing-beat nearer to me.

With eye soft as death or the mist-wreaths above her

She timidly gazes below;

Oh, never had sea-bird a man for her lover,

And little recks she of his woe.

One sweet, startled note of amazement she utters,

One white plume floats downward to me;

Far over the billows a snowy wing flutters—

Night—darkness—alone with the sea.