At dawn he saw her standing by the lighthouse spire,
By bothered sea, with winds that seemed to fan the morning’s fire.
They blew him to her arms and as a ship in peril
That sees the beacon’s warning in a wintry gale
...He changed his course and Lydia became his love.
The day broke fresh and there was perfume on the breeze
And they were love in love, his Lydia and he.
He sung to her of strange and far off climes
Where Mungo fruit hung rich on raspberry colored vines.
And she responded as the day ran long
With dizzy, faint imaginings of Orpheus's songs
But, then, the weather changed and storm clouds spawned.
He turned around... and, lo’, his Lydia was gone.
And, so, he sang with strings that quivered in the piercing dawn.
And, then, he swooned until his soul’s soul was wan.
While winds that should, their balms caress him in a favored lee,
Yet, bruised and battered he was blown and tossed amid a lonely sea,
“Oh, Lydia”... his cry unto the raging blast.
“Oh, Lydia”, he cried, and with that... sighed his last.
“Oh, Lydia”, The sound was carried by the sterile wind.
Oh Lydia, never to return again.