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<br/>
<h2> THE WRAITH </h2>
<p>A ship in port; well-crossed the harbour-bar;<br/>
The hawser swung, the grinding helm at rest;<br/>
Hands clasping hands, and eyes with eager zest<br/>
Seeking the loved, returning from afar.<br/>
<br/>
And he, the master, holding little reck<br/>
Of all, save but the idol of his soul,<br/>
Seeks not his loving ardour to control.<br/>
Mark how he proudly treads the whitened deck!<br/>
<br/>
“My bride, my bride, my lone soul’s best beloved,<br/>
Come forth, come forth! Where art thou, Isobel?—<br/>
Pallid, and wan! Lord, hath it thus befell<br/>
<br/>
This is but dust; where has the spirit roved?<br/>
O death-cold bride! for this, then, have I strove?<br/>
O phantom ship, O loveless wraith of Love!”<br/></p>
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