ALL in solitude and silence, By the old boat on the strand, With the sky and sea above her Circling like a turquoise band, And the yellow sun of autumn Weaving gold lace of her hair, Gazing wistfully to seaward, Sits Anita, sweet and fair. With her parasol is toying Her petite and slender hand. Is she hearing from the ocean Tales borne from a foreign land? Are her placid thoughts a-wand'ring Like the sailing thistle-down With an artless, aimless freedom Till within the sea they drown? Is she sorry that the season Has so fleetly slipped away? Does she think of other seasons Just as happy, just as gay? As she tears a stately aster, Resting lightly on her knee, Gazing wistfully to seaward, Does she ever think of me? |