Sing ye rest? Naught can be until, lovingly one,
Our two souls flow in peace to the sea.
But the truth? That I love as I love the sun, -
She hath plighted her troth to me.
The wind of pleasure sought an easier sway,
The breath of slumber sought a warmer sun,
Then slowly sighed the northern breeze away, -
For well they knew the western wind had won.
S.