Blue is the mist on the mountains,
⁠White is the fog on the sea;
Ruby and gold is the sunset,—
⁠And Bertha is waiting for me.

Down on the loathsome sand-beach,
⁠Her eyes as blue as the mist;
Her brows as white as the sea-fog,—
⁠Bertha, whose lips I have kissed.

​Bertha, whose lips are like rubies,
⁠Whose hair is like coiléd gold;
Whose sweet, rare smile is tenderer
⁠Than any legend of old.

One morn, one noon, one sunset,
⁠Must pass before we meet;
O wind and sail bear steady on,
⁠And bring me to her feet.

The morn rose pale and sullen,
⁠The noon was still and dun;
Across the storm at sunset,
⁠Came the boom of a signal-gun.

Who treads the loathsome sand-beach,
⁠With wet, disordered hair;
With garments tangled with sea-weed,
⁠And cheeks more pale than fair?

O blue-eyed, white-browed maiden,
⁠He will keep love's tryst no more;
His ship sailed safely into port—
⁠But on the heavenward shore.