The Mourner

By Nora May French

Because my love has wave and foam for speech,
   And never words, and yearns as water grieves,
With white arms curving on a listless beach,
   And murmurs inarticulate as leaves—

I am become beloved of the night—
   Her huge sea-lands ineffable and far
Hold crouched and splendid Sorrow, eyed with light,
   And Pain who beads his forehead with a star.