Grannam will come upon us.
_Sylvan_.
Where is she?
_Katrina_.
Yonder, gathering driftwood for her fire.
There is a little bay not far from here,
The shingle of it a thronging city of flies,
Feeding on the dead weed that mounds the beach;
And the sea hoards there its vain avarice,--
Old flotsam, and decaying trash of ships.
An arm of reef half locks it in, and holds
The bottom of the bay deep strewn with seaweed,
A barn full of the harvesting of storms;
And at full tide, the little hampered waves
Lift up the litter, so that, against the light,
The yellow kelp and bracken of the sea,
Held up in ridges of green water, show
Like moss in agates. And there is no place
In all the coast for wreckage like this bay;
There often will my grannam be, a sack
Over her shoulders, turning up the crust
Of sun-dried weed to find her winter's warmth.
_Sylvan_.
Is that she coming?
_Katrina_.
O Sylvan, has she seen us?
_Sylvan_.
What matter if she has?
_Katrina_.
But it would matter!
_Sylvan_.
Katrina, come with me now! We'll go together
Back to my house.
_Katrina_.
No, no, not now! I must
Carry my grannam's load for her: 'tis heavy.
_Sylvan_.
We must not part again.
_Katrina_.
No, not for long;
For if we do, there will be storms again,
I know; and a fierce reluctance--O, a mad
Tormenting thing!--will shake me.
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