THE tide has swept the aching flats And hid their barren shame once more, And in the dying wind she chats, Of deep-sea gossip, with the shore. The sun, an alien soul at noon, Becomes more intimate with earth; And, floating high, a lonely moon Waits eagerly the first star's birth. A slim, black shape creeps up the sea, And oar-locks gulp like living things; And birds come winging over me With day's last effort in their wings. The crimson banks of cloud ascend And all the former red is gray. The rowers near; I watch them bend And turn with song their toil to play. And, as I seek my chair and fire, Somewhere beyond that sea's last cry Strange songsters of a tropic choir Sing paeans to a morning sky. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TRANSLUCENT FINGERS by MALCOLM COWLEY THE WILLOW by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON JONES'S PRIVATE ARGYMENT by SIDNEY LANIER THE HARD TIMES IN ELFLAND; A STORY OF CHRISTMAS EVE by SIDNEY LANIER NICHARCHUS UPON PHIDON HIS DOCTOR by EZRA POUND |