| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 656. Seaward |
| | | To —— |
| | | By Celia Thaxter |
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| HOW long it seems since that mild April night, | |
| When, leaning from the window, you and I | |
| Heard, clearly ringing from the shadowy bight, | |
| The loon’s unearthly cry! | |
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| Southwest the wind blew, million little waves | 5 |
| Ran rippling round the point in mellow tune, | |
| But mournful, like the voice of one who raves, | |
| That laughter of the loon! | |
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| We called to him, while blindly through the haze | |
| Uprose the meagre moon behind us, slow, | 10 |
| So dim, the fleet of boats we scarce could trace, | |
| Moored lightly just below. | |
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| We called, and, lo, he answered! Half in fear | |
| We sent the note back. Echoing rock and bay | |
| Made melancholy music far and near; | 15 |
| Sadly it died away. | |
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| That schooner, you remember? Flying ghost! | |
| Her canvas catching every wandering beam, | |
| Aerial, noiseless, past the glimmering coast | |
| She glided like a dream. | 20 |
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| Would we were leaning from your window now, | |
| Together calling to the eerie loon, | |
| The fresh wind blowing care from either brow, | |
| This sumptuous night of June! | |
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| So many sighs load this sweet inland air, | 25 |
| ’T is hard to breathe, nor can we find relief: | |
| However lightly touched, we all must share | |
| This nobleness of grief. | |
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| But sighs are spent before they reach your ear; | |
| Vaguely they mingle with the water’s rune; | 30 |
| No sadder sound salutes you than the clear, | |
| Wild laughter of the loon. | |
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