THERE on the white Pacific shore the pines Still serve their jealous gods, and late and soon The murmur runs along their rugged lines, "What black ship waits the crash of our typhoon?" And in this vigil circled, calm and proud, God-gates and temples glow with changeless noon, Their mysteries awing that young seraph-cloud Swan-like between the mountain and the moon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TOWER OF SKULLS by ISAAC ROSENBERG CABOOSE THOUGHTS by CARL SANDBURG AN UPPER CHAMBER by FRANCES BANNERMAN AN ELEGY ON THE UNTIMELY DEATH OF THOMAS AYLEWORTH, SLAIN AT CROYDON by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) LOVE'S COURTSHIP by THOMAS CAREW |