Explore "The Wraith" by Gilbert Parker on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
A ship in port; well-crossed the harbour-bar; / The hawser swung, the grinding helm at rest; / Hands clasping hands, and eyes with eager zest / Seeking the loved, returning from afar.
And he, the master, holding little reck / Of all, save but the idol of his soul, / Seeks not his loving ardour to control.
Mark how he proudly treads the whitened deck!
"My bride, my bride, my lone soul's best beloved, / Come forth, come forth! Where art thou, Isobel? -- / Pallid, and wan! Lord, hath it thus befell
This is but dust; where has the spirit roved?
O death-cold bride! for this, then, have I strove?
O phantom ship, O loveless wraith of Love! "