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The dawn was whitening over the sea’s verge
As she sat pensive, touching broken chords
Of half-remorseful thought, while the hoarse surge
Howled a sad concert to her broken words.

“Ah, my poor husband! we had five before,
Already so much care, so much to find,
For he must work for all. I give him more.
What was that noise? His step! Ah, no! the wind.

“That I should be afraid of him I love!
I have done ill. If he should beat me now,
I would not blame him. Did not the door move?
Not yet, poor man.” She sits with careful brow
Wrapped in her inward grief; nor hears the roar
Of winds and waves that dash against his prow,
Nor the black cormorant shrieking on the shore.

Sudden the door flies open wide, and lets
Noisily in the dawn-light scarcely clear,
And the good fisher, dragging his damp nets,
Stands on the threshold, with a joyous cheer.

“‘Tis thou!” she cries, and, eager as a lover,
Leaps up and holds her husband to her breast;
Her greeting kisses all his vesture cover;
“‘Tis I, good wife!” and his broad face expressed

How gay his heart that Janet’s love made light.
“What weather was it?” “Hard.” “Your fishing?” “Bad.
The sea was like a nest of thieves to-night;
But I embrace thee, and my heart is glad.

“There was a devil in the wind that blew;
I tore my net, caught nothing, broke my line,
And once I thought the bark was broken too;
What did you all the night long, Janet mine?”

She, trembling in the darkness, answered, “I!
Oh, naught–I sew’d, I watch’d, I was afraid,
The waves were loud as thunders from the sky;
But it is over.” Shyly then she said–

“Our neighbor died last night; it must have been
When you were gone. She left two little ones,
So small, so frail–William and Madeline;
The one just lisps, the other scarcely runs.”

The man looked grave, and in the corner cast
His old fur bonnet, wet with rain and sea,
Muttered awhile, and scratched his head,–at last
“We have five children, this makes seven,” said he.

“Already in bad weather we must sleep
Sometimes without our supper. Now! Ah, well–
‘Tis not my fault. These accidents are deep;
It was the good God’s will. I cannot tell.

“Why did He take the mother from those scraps,
No bigger than my fist. ‘Tis hard to read;
A learned man might understand, perhaps–
So little, they can neither work nor need.

“Go fetch them, wife; they will be frightened sore,
If with the dead alone they waken thus.
That was the mother knocking at our door,
And we must take the children home to us.

“Brother and sister shall they be to ours,
And they will learn to climb my knee at even;
When He shall see these strangers in our bowers,
More fish, more food, will give the God of Heaven.

“I will work harder; I will drink no wine–
Go fetch them. Wherefore dost thou linger, dear?
Not thus were wont to move those feet of thine.”
She drew the curtain, saying, “They are here!”

Translated by BP. ALEXANDER