God bless the woman, whoever she be,
From the tossing waves will recover thee
⁠⁠And lashing wind.
Who will take thee out of the wind and storm,
Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm
⁠⁠And lips so kind?

I not to know. It is hard to pray.
But I shall for this woman from day to day,
⁠⁠‘Comfort my dead,
The sport of the winds and the play of the sea.’
I loved thee too well for this thing to be,
⁠⁠O dear black head!