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 GHOST OF DEACON BROWN by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON IN A SWEDISH GRAVEYARD by EMMA LAZARUS AT THE MERMAID TAVERN (APRIL 10, 1613) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DOMESDAY BOOK: AT FAIRBANKS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DOMESDAY BOOK: HENRY BAKER, AT NEW YORK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |