Go, Lady, ask Lord Lucy of his grace
To grant us land, so did Saint Bega say,
Where we may rear a house to watch and pray:
The storm that flung us to the landing-place
Robbed us of all. Lord Lucy from the chase
Came laughing home: Good dame, I answer, Nay,
Yet promise all on next Midsummer day
Is white with snow to mend the stranger’s case.
God hath His book, St. Bega’s prayer is won,
Vows made in haste are vows eternally:
There came the hallow-eve of Great Saint John,
Forth looked the young moon from a sultry sky;
But ere the night to Midsummer had gone,
Beneath the snow three miles of seaboard lie.
(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 101)