In the summer season,
While yet the dawn was hoar,
I went plucking purple pansies,
Till my love should come to shore.

The fishing lights were gleaming,
They were keeping out at sea,
And “Come,” I sang, “my true love,
Come home, come home to me.”

But the mist fell thick at mooning,
And the white gulls rocked thereon,
And the young moon dropped from heaven,
And the fishing lights hid one by one.

All silently their glances
Slipped down the cruel sea,
And “Wait,” cried the night and the storm,
The wind and storm, “Wait till I come to thee.”

“Wait till I come to thee,
Wait till I come to thee.”