The Tragedienne

A STORM is riding on the tide;

Grey is the day and grey the tide,

Far-off the sea-gulls wheel and cry--

A storm draws near upon the tide.

A city lifts its minarets

To winds that from the desert sweep;

And prisoned Arab women weep

Below the domes and minarets.

Upon a hill in Thessaly

Stand broken columns in a line

About a cold forgoten shrine,

Beneath a moon in Thessaly

But in the world there is no place

So desolate as your tragic face.

Zoë Akins

I am the Wind

I AM the wind that wavers,

You are the certain land;

I am the shadow that passes

Over the sand.

I am the leaf that quivers,

You, the unshaken tree;

You are the stars that are steadfast,

I am the sea.

You are the light eternal--

Like a torch I shall die.

You are the surge of deep music,

I but a cry!

Zoë Akins

The Wanderer

THE ships are lying in the bay,

The gulls are swinging round their spars;

My soul as eagerly as they

Desires the margin of the stars.

So much do I love wandering,

So much I love the sea and sky,

That it will be a piteous thing

In one small grave to lie.

Zoë Akins