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When thunder blots the sun,
And lays a hand of terror on the herds,
But she had sunk in swoon, and there I stood
Like one too late upon a brink, who sees
The water closing over all he loves.
I knelt down by the bed.
The sea is glittering in the sunny bay,
The fisher's nets are drying on the shore,
And let us gather silver purple shells
You have been in the woods ; Your lips are black with berries. O the boats, The bonny, bonny boats! List, the fishers sing!"
Upon this dark and dreadful, dreadful road;
I cannot hear a voice or touch a hand;
O Father, take me home!" She sobbed and wept
As if she were a little wandered child.
Her Father took her home. I stooped to catch
Her feeble breath; a change came o'er her look,