She couldn't bring herself to bar the door —
And him on the wrong side of it. Nevermore
She'd hear his footstep on the threshold-stone....
You're not afraid to lie all night alone,
And Jim but newly drowned? they'd asked; and she
Had turned upon her neighbours wonderingly.
Afraid of what? she said. — Afraid of him
The neighbours answered. — Me — afraid of Jim!
And after all these years! she cried. And he —
How can you think that he'd bring harm to me?
You know him better surely, even you!
And I ... Then they had left her, for they knew
Too well that any word that they could say
Would help her nothing.
When they'd gone away,
Leaving her to her trouble, she arose
And, taking from the kist his Sunday clothes,
Folded so neatly, kept so carefully
In camphor free of moth, half-absently
She shook them out and hung them up to air
Before the fire upon his high-backed chair;
And then when they were aired she folded them
Carefully seam to seam and hem to hem,
And smoothing them with tender hands, again
She laid them in the kist where they had lain
Six days a week for hard on forty-year....

Ay, forty years they'd shared each hope and fear —
They two together — yet she might not tend
With loving hands his body in the end.
The sea had taken him from her, and she —
She could do nothing for him now — the sea
Had taken him from her; and nevermore
Might she do anything for him....
The door
Flapped in the wind. She shut and snecked it tight,
But did not bolt it: then she set a light
In the white-curtained window, where it shone
As clearly as on each night that he had gone
Out with the boats in all that forty-year;
And each night she had watched it burning clear,
Alone and wakeful.... And, though lonelier,
She'd lie to-night as many a night she'd lain
On her left side with face turned towards the pane,
So that if she should wake at once she'd see
If still her beacon-light burned steadily,
Feeling that maybe somewhere in the night
Of those dark waters he could see the light
Far-off and very dim, a little spark
Of comfort burning for him through the dark,
And even though it should dwindle from his sight
It seemed to her that he must feel the light
Burning within his heart, the light of home....

From those black cruel waters sudden foam
Flashed as she gazed; and with a shuddering stir,
As though cold drowning waves went over her,
She stood a moment gasping. Then she turned
From the bright window where her watch-light burned
And, taking off her clothes, crept into bed
To see if she could sleep: but when her head
Touched the cold pillow such hot restlessness
She felt, she'd half-a-mind to rise and dress
Each moment as she tossed from side to side.
The bed to-night seemed very big and wide
And hard and cold to her, though a hot ache
Held her whole body tingling wide awake,
Turning and tossing half the endless night.

Then quieter she lay and watched the light
Burning so steadily, until the flame
Dazzled her eyes, and golden memories came
Out of the past to comfort her. She lay
Remembering — remembering that day,
Nigh twenty years since, when she'd thought him drowned,
And after all...
She heard again the sound
Of seas that swept, a solid wall of green,
Such seas as living eyes had never seen,
Over the rockbound harbour, with a roar
Rushing the beach, tossing against the door
Driftwood and old cork-floats, slashing the pane
With flying weed again and yet again,
As, toppling to disaster, sea on sea
Beneath the crashing wind broke furiously
Almost upon the very threshold-stone
In white tumultuous thunder. All alone
She watched through that long morn — too much afraid
To stir or do a hand's-turn, her heart prayed
One prayer unceasingly, though not a word
Escaped her lips; till in a lull she heard
A neighbour call out that the Morning Star
Had gone ashore somewhere beyond Hell Scar,
Hard by the Wick, and all ... And then the roar
Drowned everything....
And how she reached the door
She never knew. She found herself outside
Suddenly face to face with that mad tide,
Battling for breath against a wind that fought
Each inch with her as she turned north, and caught
Her bodily and flung her reeling back
A dozen times before she reached the track
That runs along the crag-top to the Head.
Bent double still she struggled on half-dead,
For not a moment could she stand upright
Against the wind, striving with all her might
To reach the Wick. She struggled through that wind
As through cold clinging water, deaf and blind;
And numb and heavy in that icy air
Her battered body felt, as though stark-bare
She floundered in deep seas. Once in a lull
Flat on her face she fell. A startled gull
Rose skirling at her; and with burning eyes
She lay a moment, far too scared to rise,
Staring into a gully black as night
In which the seething waters, frothing white,
Thundered from crag to crag and, baffled, leapt
A hundred feet in air. She'd nearly stepped
Into that gully. Just in time the wind
Had dropped: one moment more and, headlong, blind,
She'd tumbled into that pit of death ... and Jim,
If he were living yet...
The thought of him
Startled her to her feet; and on once more
Against a fiercer wind along the shore
She struggled with set teeth, and dragging hair
Drenched in the sousing spray that leapt in air,
Spinning and hissing, smiting her like hail.

Then, when it almost seemed that she must fail
To reach the Wick alive or dead, she found
That she was there already. To the ground
She sank dead-beat. Almost too faint and weak
To lift her head, her wild eyes sought the creek;
But there she saw no sign of boat or man —
Only a furious smother of seas that ran
Along a slanting jetty ceaselessly.
Groping for life, she searched the spumy sea
For sail or sign in vain — then knew no more...
Till she was lifted by strong arms that bore
Her safely through the storm, lying at rest
Without a care upon her husband's breast,
Unquestioning till she reached home, content
To feel his arms about her as he bent
Over her tenderly and breathed her name.

And then she heard how back from death he came
Unscathed to her, by some strange mercy thrown
Alive almost upon his threshold-stone —
When, hearing where she'd gone, he'd followed her
Hot-foot....
The breath of dawn began to blur
The shining pane with mist.... And nevermore
His foot would follow her along that shore.
The sea had taken him from her at last,
Had taken him to keep....
Then from the past
She waked with eyes that looked beyond the light,
Still burning clearly, into the lingering night,
Black yet beyond the steaming window-pane
Down which big glistening drops of gentle rain
Trickled until they dazzled her; and she lay
Again remembering — how ere break of day
When she was young she'd had to rise and go
Along the crag-top some five-mile or so
With other lads and lasses to Skateraw
To gather bait....
Again her young eyes saw
Those silent figures with their creels, dead-black
Against the stars, climbing the sheer cliff-track
In single file before her, or quite bright
As suddenly the lighthouse flashed its light
Full on them, stepping up out of the night
On to the day-bright crag-top — kindling white,
A moment windy hair and streaming grass.
Again she trudged, a drowsy little lass,
The youngest of them all, across dim fields
By sleeping farms and ruined roofless bields,
Frightened by angry dogs that roused from sleep
Yelped after them, or by a startled sheep
That scurried by her suddenly, while she
Was staring at a ship's lights out at sea
With dreaming eyes, or counting countless stars
That twinkled bright beyond the jagged scars;
Or stumbled over a slippery shingle-beach
Beneath her creel, and shuddered at the screech
And sudden clamour of wings that round her flapped
Again she felt that cruel cold: though hapt
In the big shawl, the raw wind searched her through
Till every bone ached. Then once more she knew
Brief respite, when at last they reached Skateraw
And rested till the dawn.
Again she saw
Those dark groups sitting quiet in the night,
Awaiting the first blink of morning-light
To set to work gathering the bait, while she
Sang to them as they sat beside the sea.
They always made her sing, for she'd a voice
When she was young, she had, and such a choice
Of words and airs by heart: and she was glad
To turn a tune for any lass or lad
Who'd ask her, always glad to hear them say —
Come, Singing Sally, give us " Duncan Gray " ,
" The De'il among the Tailors " , " Elsie Marley " ,
" The Keel Row " , or " The Wind among the Barley " ,
And always gladdest when 'twas Jim would ask.

Again, as they would settle to their task
Of gathering clammy mussels, that cold ache
Stole through her bones. It seemed her back must break
Each time she stooped or lifted up her head,
Though still she worked with fingers raw and red
Until her creel was filled. But, toiling back,
Staggering beneath her load along her track,
Jim would come up with her and take her creel
And bear it for her, if she'd sing a reel
To keep their hearts up as they trudged along.
Half-numb with sleep, she'd start a dancing-song
And sing, the fresh wind blowing in her face,
Until the dancing blood began to race
Through her young body and her heart grew light,
Forgetting all the labours of the night. ...
Once more she walked light-foot to that gay air,
The wind of morning fresh on face and hair,
A girl again. ...
And Jim, 'twas always he
Who bore her burden for her. ...
Quietly
With eyes upon the golden lamp she lay,
While all unseen of her the winter day
Behind the dim wet pane broke bleak and cold.
She seemed to look upon a dawn of gold
That kindled every dancing wave to glee
As she walked homeward singing by the sea,
As she walked homeward with the windy stir
Fresh in her flying hair, and over her
Jim bent — young lucky Jim — a kindly lad
Taking the creel; and her girl's heart was glad
As ...
Clasped within each other's arms, the deep
Closed over them ...
Smiling, she fell asleep.