Classic Poem

He saw it last of all before they herded in the steerage,
Dark against the sunset where he lingered by the hold—
The tear-stained, dusk-rose face of her, the little Teresina,
Sailing out to lands of gold.

Ah, his days were long, long days, still toiling in the vine-yard,
Working for the gold to set him free to go to her,
Where gay there glowed the flower-face of little Teresina,
Where all joy and riches were. . . .

Hard to find one rose-face where the dark rose-faces cluster,
Where the outland laws are strange and outland voices hum—
Only one lad's hoping, and the word of Teresina,
Who would wait for him to come:
…

God grant he may not find her, since he may not win her freedom,
Nor yet be great enough to love, in such marred, captive guise,
The patient, painted face of her, the little Teresina,
With its cowed, all-knowing eyes!