Across my thoughts the old wash of the sea, And the evening star breaks out in golden speech. (The little poets say do not write of the moon and stars.) A church bell deepens the twilight's mystery Like a voice of centuries that have no history But are only a dream and memory of God. (The little poets say do not write of God.) Beyond the gray breakwater the mountains tower. (What is so strong as beauty, so new as a new-born star?) The gray bell hushes, but not the voice of the Universe. (I think there are yet things to be said of God.) |