Till night rose over the bourn,
The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast,
Did mourn and mourn and mourn.


BETRAYAL: ALINE KILMER

Four hundred times the glass had run
And seven times the moon had died
Since my lover rode in his silver mail
Away from his new-made bride.

A ghost-light gleamed in the field beyond
And a wet, wet wind blew in from the sea
When out of the mist my own true love
Came up and stood by me.

My heart leapt up that had been still,
My voice rang out that had been sad,
Till my sister left her busy wheel
To see what made me glad.

She saw my arms about his neck,
She saw my head upon his breast.
Oh, why did my sister hate me so
That she would not let me rest?

Loud then laughed my cruel sister,
False and fair of face was she,
"O that is never your own true love,