Poems (Cary)/Helva

​
HELVA.
Her white hands full of mountain flowers, Down by the rough rocks and the sea,Helva, the raven-tressed, for hours, Has gazed forth earnestly.
Unconscious that the salt spray flecks The ebon beauty of her hair—What vision is it she expects, So meekly lingering there?
Is it to see the sea-fog lift From the broad bases of the hills,Or the red moonlight's golden drift, That her soft bosom thrills?
Or yet to see the starry hours Their silver network round her throw,That 'neath the white hands full of flowers, Her heart heaves to and fro?
Why strains so far the aching eye? Kind nature wears to-night no frown,And the still beauty of the sky Keeps the mad ocean down.
​
Why are those damp and heavy locks Put back, the faintest sound to win?Ah! where the beacon lights the rocks, A ship is riding in!
Who comes forth to the vessel's side, Leaning upon the manly armOf one who wraps with tender pride The mantle round her form?
Oh, Helva, watcher of lone hours, May God in mercy give thee aid!Thy cheek is whiter than thy flowers— Thy woman's heart betrayed!
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.