THE TRYST by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON

THE panting north wind staggers
A-clutch with the sullen tide,
And the blast with a hundred daggers
Is piercing the rower's side.
They say he was mad to venture,
They moan on the icy shore;
But pleading, or fear, or censure
Shall carry him back no more.

For what is the cold wave's seething,
Or the rush of the white-speared storm,
To the thought of the sweet South, breathing
From lips that are pure and warm;
Or the thrust of the angry billow
To the rise of her tranquil breast
That to-night shall be his pillow
Where, welcome, he may rest?

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