The Two Twilights
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PREFACE
The contents of this volume include selections from two early books of verse, long out of print; a few pieces from The Ways of Yale (Henry Holt & Co); and a handful of poems contributed of late years to the magazines and not heretofore collected.
For permission to use copyrighted material my thanks are due to Messrs. Henry Holt & Co., and to the publishers of Harper's Monthly Magazine and of the Yale Review.
HENRY A. BEERS.THE THANKLESS MUSE
The muses ring my bell and run away.I spy you, rogues, behind the evergreen:You, wild Thalia, romper in the hay;And you, Terpsichore, you long-legged quean.When I was young you used to come and stay,But, now that I grow older, 'tis well seenWhat tricks ye put upon me. Well-a-day!How many a summer evening have ye beenSitting about my door-step, fain to singAnd tell old tales, while through the fragrant darkBurned the large planets, throbbed the brooding soundOf crickets and the tree-toads' ceaseless ring;And in the meads the fire-fly lit her sparkWhere from my threshold sank the vale profound.BLUE ROSES OF ACADEMUS
So late and long the shadows lieUnder the quadrangle wall:From such a narrow strip of skySo scant an hour the sunbeams fall,They hardly come to touch at allThis cool, sequestered corner where,Beside the chapel belfry tall,I cultivate my small parterre.Poor, sickly blooms of Academe,Recluses of the college close,Whose nun-like pallor would beseemThe violet better than the rose:There's not a bud among you blowsWith scent or hue to lure the bee:Only the thorn that on you grows —Only the thorn grows hardily.Pale cloisterers, have you lost so soonThe way to blush? Do you forgetHow once, beneath the enamored moon,You climbed against the parapet,To touch the breast of JulietWarm with a kiss, wet with a tear,In gardens of the Capulet,Far south, my flowers, not here – not here?THE WINDS OF DAWN
Whither do ye blow?For now the moon is low.Whence is it that ye come,And where is it ye go?All night the air was still,The crickets' song was shrill;But now there runs a humAnd rustling through the trees.A breath of coolness wakes,As on Canadian lakes,And on Atlantic seas,And each high Alpine lawnBegin the winds of dawn.ANACREONTIC
I would not beA voyager on the windy seas:More sweet to meThis bank where crickets chirp, and beesBuzz drowsy sunshine minstrelsies.I would not bideOn lonely heights where shepherds dwell.At twilight tideThe sounds that from the valley swell,Soft breathing lute and herdsman's bell,Are sweeter farThan music of cold mountain rills.The evening starWakes love and song below, but chillsWith mist and breeze the gloomy hills.I would not wooSome storm-browed Juno, queenly fair.Soft eyes of blueAnd sudden blushes unawareDo net my heart in silken snare.I do not loveThe eyrie, but low woodland nestOf cushat dove:Not wind, but calm; not toil, but restAnd sleep in grassy meadow's breast.BUMBLE BEE
As I lay yonder in tall grassA drunken bumble-bee went pastDelirious with honey toddy.The golden sash about his bodyCould scarce keep in his swollen bellyDistent with honey-suckle jelly.Rose liquor and the sweet pea wineHad filled his soul with song divine;Deep had he drunk the warm night through:His hairy thighs were wet with dew.Full many an antic he had playedWhile the world went round through sleep and shade.Oft had he lit with thirsty lipSome flower-cup's nectared sweets to sip,When on smooth petals he would slipOr over tangled stamens trip,And headlong in the pollen rolled,Crawl out quite dusted o'er with gold.Or else his heavy feet would stumbleAgainst some bud and down he'd tumbleAmongst the grass; there lie and grumbleIn low, soft bass – poor maudlin bumble!With tipsy hum on sleepy wingHe buzzed a glee – a bacchic thingWhich, wandering strangely in the moon,He learned from grigs that sing in June,Unknown to sober bees who dwellThrough the dark hours in waxen cell.When south wind floated him awayThe music of the summer dayLost something: sure it was a painTo miss that dainty star-light strain.WATER LILIES AT SUNSET
Mine eyes have seen when once at sunset hourWhite lily flocks that edged a lonely lakeAll rose and sank upon the lifting swellThat swayed their long stems lazily, and lappedTheir floating pads and stirred among the leaves.And when the sun from western gates of dayPoured colored flames, they, kissed to ruddy shame,So blushed through snowy petals, that they glowedLike roses morning-blown in dewy bowers,When garden-walks lie dark with early shade.That so their perfumed chalices were brimmedWith liquid glory till they overflowedAnd spilled rich lights and purple shadows out,That splashed the pool with gold, and stained its wavesIn tints of violet and ruby blooms.But when the flashing gem that lit the dayDropped in its far blue casket of the hills,The rainbow paintings faded from the mere,The wine-dark shades grew black, the gilding dimmed,While, paling slow through tender amber hues,The crimsoned lilies blanched to coldest white,And wanly shivered in the evening breeze.When twilight closed – when earliest dew-drops fellAll frosty-chill deep down their golden hearts,They shrank at that still touch, as maidens shrink,When love's first footstep frights with sweet alarmsThe untrod wildness of their virgin breasts;Then shut their ivory cups, and dipping lowTheir folded beauties in the gloomy wave,They nodded drowsily and heaved in sleep.But sweeter far than summer dreams at dawn,Their mingled breaths from out the darkness stole,Across the silent lake, the winding shores,The shadowy hills that rose in lawny slopes,The marsh among whose reeds the wild fowl screamed,And dusky woodlands where the night came down.BETWEEN THE FLOWERS
An open door and door-steps wide,With pillared vines on either side,And terraced flowers, stair over stair,Standing in pots of earthenwareWhere stiff processions filed around —Black on the smooth, sienna ground.Tubers and bulbs now blossomed thereWhich, in the moisty hot-house air,Lay winter long in patient rows,Glassed snugly in from Christmas snows:Tuberoses, with white, waxy gemsIn bunches on their reed-like stems;Their fragrance forced by art too soonTo mingle with the sweets of June.(So breathes the thin blue smoke, that stealsFrom ashes of the gilt pastilles,Burnt slowly, as the brazier swings,In dim saloons of eastern kings.)I saw the calla's arching cupWith yellow spadix standing up,Its liquid scents to stir and mix —The goldenest of toddy-sticks;Roses and purple fuchsia drops;Camellias, which the gardener cropsTo make the sickening wreaths that lieOn coffins when our loved ones die.These all and many more were there;Monsters and grandifloras rare,With tropical broad leaves, grown rank,Drinking the waters of the tankWherein the lotus-lilies bathe;All curious forms of spur and spathe,Pitcher and sac and cactus-thorn,There in the fresh New England morn.But where the sun came colored throughTranslucent petals wet with dew,The interspace was carpetedWith oriel lights and nodes of red,Orange and blue and violet,That wove strange figures, as they met,Of airier tissue, brighter bloomsThan tumble from the Persian looms.So at the pontiff's feasts, they tell,From the board's edge the goblet fell,Spilled from its throat the purple tideAnd stained the pavement far and wide.Such steps wise Sheba trod uponUp to the throne of Solomon;So bright the angel-crowded steepWhich Israel's vision scaled in sleep.What one is she whose feet shall dareTread that illuminated stair?Like Sheba, queen; like angels, fair?Oh listen! In the morning airThe blossoms all are hanging still —The queen is standing on the sill.No Sheba she; her virgin zoneProclaims her royalty alone:(Such royalty the lions own.)Yet all too cheap the patterned stoneThat paves kings' palaces, to feelThe pressure of her gaiter's heel.The girlish grace that lit her faceMade sunshine in a dusky place —The old silk hood, demure and quaint,Wherein she seemed an altar-saintFresh-tinted, though in setting oldOf dingy carving and tarnished gold;Her eyes, the candles in that shrine,Making Madonna's face to shine.Lingering I passed, but evermoreAbide with me the open door,The doorsteps wide, the flowers that standIn brilliant ranks on either hand,The two white pillars and the vineOf bitter-sweet and lush woodbine,And – from my weary paths as farAs Sheba or the angels are —Between, upon the wooden sill,Thou, Queen of Hearts, art standing still.AS YOU LIKE IT
Here while I read the light forsakes the pane;Metempsychosis of the twilight gray —Into green aisles of Epping or ArdenneThe level lines of print stretch far away.The book-leaves whisper like the forest-leaves;A smell of ancient woods, a breeze of morn,A breath of violets from the mossy pathsAnd hark! the voice of hounds – the royal horn,Which, muffled in the ferny coverts deep,Utters the three sweet notes that sound recall;As, riding two by two between the oaks,Come on the paladins and ladies all.The court will rest from chase in this smooth gladeThat slopes to meet yon little rushy stream,Where in the shallows nod the arrow-heads,And the blue flower-de-luce's banners gleam.The gamekeepers are coupling of the hounds;The pages hang bright scarfs upon the boughs;The new-slain quarry lies upon the turfWhereon but now he with the herd did browse.The silk pavilion shines among the trees;The mighty pasties and the flagons strongGive cheer to the dear heart of many a knight,And many a dame whose beauty lives in song.Meanwhile a staging improvised and rudeRises, whereon the masquers and the mimesPlay for their sport a pleasant interlude,Fantastic, gallant, pointing at the times.Their green-room is the wide midsummer wood;Down some far-winding gallery the deer —The dappled dead-head of that sylvan show —Starts as the distant ranting strikes his ear.They use no traverses nor painted screenTo help along their naked, out-door wit:(Only the forest lends its leafy scene)Yet wonderfully well they please the pit.The plaudits echo through the wide parquetWhere the fair audience upon the grass,Each knight beside his lady-love, is set,While overhead the merry winds do pass.The little river murmurs in its reeds,And somewhere in the verdurous solitudeThe wood-thrush drops a cool contralto note,An orchestra well-tuned unto their mood.As runs the play so runs the afternoon;The curtain and the sun fall side by side;The epilogue is spoke, the twilight come;Then homeward through the darkening glades they ride.THE OLD CITY
Ancient city, down thy streetMinstrels make their music sweet;Sound of bells is on the air,Fountains sing in every square,Where, from dawn to shut of day,Maidens walk and children play;And at night, when all are gone,The waters in the dark sing on,Till the moonrise and the breezeWhiten the horse-chestnut trees.Cool thou liest, leisured, slow,On the plains of long ago,All unvexed of fretful tradesThrough thy rich and dim arcades,Overlooking lands belowTerraced to thy green plateau.Dear old city, it is longSince I heard thy minstrels' song,Since I heard thy church-bells deep,Since I watched thy fountains leap.Yet, whichever way I turn,Still I see the sunset burnAt the ending of the street,Where the chestnut branches meet;Where, between the gay bazaars,Maidens walk with eyes like stars,And the slippered merchants goOn the pavements to and fro.Upland winds blow through my sleep,Moonrise glimmers, waters leap,Till, awaking, thou dost seemLike a city of a dream, —Like a city of the air,Builded high, aloof and fair, —Such as childhood used to knowOn the plains of long ago.AMETHYSTS
Not the green eaves of our young woods aloneShelter new violets, by the spring rains kissed;In the hard quartz, by some old April sown,Blossoms Time's flower, the steadfast amethyst."Here's pansies, they're for thoughts" – weak thoughts though fair;June sees their opening, June their swift decay.But those stone bourgeons stand for thoughts more rare,Whose patient crystals colored day by day.Might I so cut my flowers within the rock,And prison there their sweet escaping breath;Their petals then the winter's frost should mock,And only Time's slow chisel work their death.If out of those embedded purple bloomsWere quarried cups to hold the purple wine,Greek drinkers thought the glorious, maddening fumesWere cooled with radiance of that gem divine.Might I so wed the crystal and the grape,Passion's red heart and plastic Art's endeavor,Delirium should take on immortal shape,Dancing and blushing in strong rock forever.KATY DID
In a windy tree-top sitting,Singing at the fall of dew,Katy watched the bats a-flitting,While the twilight's curtains drewCloser round her; till she onlySaw the branches and the sky —Rocking late and rocking lonely,Anchored on the darkness high.And the song that she was singing,In the windy tree-tops swinging,Was under the tree, under the treeThe fox is digging a pit for me.When the early stars were sparklingOverhead, and down belowFireflies twinkled, through the darklingThickets she heard footsteps go —Voice of her false lover speaking,Laughing to his sweetheart new: —"Half my heart for thee I'm breaking:Did not Katy love me true?"Then no longer she was singing,But through all the wood kept ringing —Katy did, Katy did, Katy did love theeAnd the fox is digging a grave for me.NARCISSUS
Where the black hemlock slants athwart the streamHe came to bathe; the sun's pursuing beamLaid a warm hand upon him, as he stoodNaked, while noonday silence filled the wood.Holding the boughs o'erhead, with cautious footHe felt his way along the mossy rootThat edged the brimming pool; then paused and dreamed.Half like a dryad of the tree he seemed,Half like the naiad of the stream below,Suspended there between the water's flowAnd the green tree-top world; the love-sick airCoaxing with softest touch his body fairA little longer yet to be contentOutside of its own crystal element.And he, still lingering at the brink, looked downAnd marked the sunshine fleck with gold the brownAnd sandy floor which paved that woodland pool.But then, within the shadows deep and coolWhich the close hemlocks on the surface made,Two eyes met his yet darker than that shadeAnd, shining through the watery foliage dim,Two white and slender arms reached up to him."Comest thou again, now all the woods are still,Fair shape, nor even Echo from the hillCalls her Narcissus? Would her voice were thine,Dear speechless image, and could answer mine!Her I but hear and thee I may but see;Yet, Echo, thou art happy unto me;For though thyself art but a voice, sad maid,Thy love the substance is and my love shade.Alas! for never may I kiss those dumbSweet lips, nor ever hope to comeInto that shadow-world that lies somewhere —Somewhere between the water and the air.Alas! for never shall I clasp that formThat mocks me yonder, seeming firm and warm;But if I leap to its embrace, the coldAnd yielding flood is all my arms enfold.All creatures else, save only me, can shareMy beauties, be it but to stroke my hair,Or hold my hand in theirs, or hear me speak.The village wives will laugh and clap my cheek;The forest nymphs will beg me for a kiss,To make me blush, or hide themselves by thisClear brook to see me bathe. But I must pine,Loving not me but this dear ghost of mine."Then, bending down the boughs, until they dippedTheir broad green fronds, into the wave he slipped,And, floating breast-high, from the branches hung,His body with the current idly swung.And ever and anon he caught the gleamOf a white shoulder swimming in the stream,Pressed close to his, and two young eyes of blackUnder the dimpling surface answered backHis own, just out of kissing distance: thenThe vain and passionate longing came againStill baffled, still renewed: he loosed his holdUpon the boughs and strove once more to foldTo his embrace that fine unbodied shape;But the quick apparition made escape,And once again his empty arms took inOnly the water and the shadows thin.Thus every day, when noon lay bright and hotOn all the plains, there came to this cool spot,Under the hemlocks by the deepening brook,Narcissus, Phoebus' darling, there to lookAnd pore upon his picture in the flood:Till once a peeping dryad of the wood,Tracking his steps along the slender pathWhich he between the tree trunks trodden hath,Misses the boy on whom her amorous eyesWhere wont to feed; but where he stood she spiesA new-made yellow flower, that still doth seemTo woo his own pale reflex in the stream;Whom Phoebus kisses when the woods are stillAnd only ceaseless Echo from the hillUnprompted cries Narcissus!NUNC DIMITTIS
Highlands of Navesink,By the blue ocean's brink,Let your gray bases drinkDeep of the sea.Tide that comes flooding up,Fill me a stirrup cup,Pledge me a parting sup,Now I go free.Wall of the Palisades,I know where greener glades,Deeper glens, darker shades,Hemlock and pine,Far toward the morning lieUnder a bluer sky,Lifted by cliffs as high,Haunts that are mine.Marshes of Hackensack,See, I am going backWhere the QuinnipiacWinds to the bay,Down its long meadow track,Piled with the myriad stack,Where in wide bivouacCamps the salt hay.Spire of old Trinity,Never again to beSea-mark and goal to meAs I walk down;Chimes on the upper air,Calling in vain to prayer,Squandering your music whereRoars the black town:Bless me once ere I rideOff to God's countryside,Where in the treetops hideBelfry and bell;Tongue of the steeple towers,Telling the slow-paced hours —Hail, thou still town of ours —Bedlam, farewell!BEAVER POND MEADOW
Thou art my Dismal Swamp, my Everglades:Thou my Campagna, where the bison wadesThrough shallow, steaming pools, and the sick airDecays. Thou my Serbonian Bog art, whereO'er leagues of mud, black vomit of the Nile,Crawls in the sun the myriad crocodile.Or thou my Cambridge or my Lincoln fenShalt be – a lonely land where stilted menStalking across the surface waters go,Casting long shadows, and the creaking, slowCanal-barge, laden with its marshy hay,Disturbs the stagnant ditches twice a day.Thou hast thy crocodiles: on rotten logsAfloat, the turtles swarm and bask: the frogs,When come the pale, cold twilights of the spring,Like distant sleigh-bells through the meadows ring.The school-boy comes on holidays to takeThe musk-rat in its hole, or kill the snake,Or fish for bull-heads in the pond at night.The hog-snout's swollen corpse, with belly white,I find upon the footway through the sedge,Trodden by tramps along the water's edge.Not thine the breath of the salt marsh belowWhere, when the tide is out, the mowers goShearing the oozy plain, that reeks with brineMore tonic than the incense of the pine.Thou art the sink of all uncleanliness,A drain for slaughter-pens, a wildernessOf trenches, pockets, quagmires, bogs where rankThe poison sumach grows, and in the tankThe water standeth ever black and deepGreened o'er with scum: foul pottages, that steepAnd brew in that dark broth, at night distilMalarious fogs bringing the fever chill.Yet grislier horrors thy recesses hold:The murdered peddler's body five days oldAmong the yellow lily-pads was foundIn yonder pond: the new-born babe lay drownedAnd throttled on the bottom of this moat,Near where the negro hermit keeps his boat;Whose wigwam stands beside the swamp; whose mealsIt furnishes, fat pouts and mud-spawned eels.Even so thou hast a kind of beauty, wild,Unwholesome – thou the suburb's outcast child,Behind whose grimy skin and matted hairWarm nature works and makes her creature fair.Summer has wrought a blue and silver borderOf iris flags and flowers in triple orderOf the white arrowhead round Beaver Pond,And o'er the milkweeds in the swamp beyondTangled the dodder's amber-colored threads.In every fosse the bladderwort's bright headsLike orange helmets on the surface show.Richer surprises still thou hast: I knowThe ways that to thy penetralia lead,Where in black bogs the sundew's sticky beadEnsnares young insects, and that rosy lass,Sweet Arethusa, blushes in the grass.Once on a Sunday when the bells were still,Following the path under the sandy hillThrough the old orchard and across the plankThat bridges the dead stream, past many a rankOf cat-tails, midway in the swamp I foundA small green mead of dry but spongy ground,Entrenched about on every side with sluicesFull to the brim of thick lethean juices,The filterings of the marsh. With line and hookTwo little French boys from the trenches tookFrogs for their Sunday meal and gathered messesOf pungent salad from the water-cresses.A little isle of foreign soil it seemed,And listening to their outland talk, I dreamedThat yonder spire above the elm-tops calmRose from the village chestnuts of La Balme.Yes, many a pretty secret hast thou shownTo me, O Beaver Pond, walking aloneOn summer afternoons, while yet the swallowSkimmed o'er each flaggy plash and gravelly shallow;Or when September turned the swamps to goldAnd purple. But the year is growing old:The golden-rod is rusted, and the redThat streaked October's frosty cheek is dead;Only the sumach's garnet pompons makeProcession through the melancholy brake.Lo! even now the autumnal wind blows coolOver the rippled waters of thy pool,And red autumnal sunset colors broodWhere I alone and all too late intrude.HIGH ISLAND
Pleasant it was at shut of day,When wind and wave had sunk away,To hear, as on the rocks we lay,The fog bell toll;And grimly through the gathering nightThe horn's dull blare from Faulkner's Light,Snuffed out by ghostly fingers whiteThat round it stole.Somewhere behind its curtain, soonThe mist grew conscious of a moon:No more we heard the diving loonScream from the spray;But seated round our drift-wood fireWatched the red sparks rise high and higher,Then, wandering into night, expireAnd pass away.Down the dark wood, the pines among,A lurid glare the firelight flung;So for a while we talked and sung,And then to sleep;And heard in dreams the light-house bell,As all night long in solemn swellThe tidal waters rose and fellWith soundings deep.LOTUS EATING
Come up once more before mine eyes,Sweet halcyon days, warm summer sea,Faint orange of the morning skiesAnd dark-lined shores upon the lee!Touched with the sunrise, sea and skyAll still on Memory's canvas lie:The scattered isles with India inkDot the wide back-ground's gold and pink:Unstirring in the Sunday calm,Their profile cedars, sharply drawn,Bold black against the flushing dawn,Take shape like clumps of tropic palm.Night shadows still the distance dim(Ultra-marine) where ocean's brimUpholdeth the horizon-rim.Once more in thought we seem to creepBy lonely reefs where sea-birds scream,Ulysses-like, along the deepBorne onward in the ocean-stream.The sea-floor spreadeth glassy still;No breath the idle sail doth fill;Our oar-blades smite the heavy seas;Under the world the morning breezeTreads with the sun the unknown ways.Thus steer we o'er the solemn mainEating the Lotus-fruit again,Dreaming that time forever stays,Singing "Where, Absence, is thy sting?"Listening to hear our echoes ringThrough the far rocks where Sirens sing.THE MERMAID'S GLASS
'T was down among the Thimble IslesThat strew for many "liquid miles"The waters of Long Island Sound:Our yacht lay in a cove; aroundThe rocky isles with cedars greenAnd channels winding in between:And here a low, black reef was spread,And there a sunken "nigger-head"Dimpled the surface of the tide.From one tall island's cliffy sideWe heard the shaggy goats that fed:The gulls wheeled screaming overheadOr settled in a snowy flockFar out upon the lonely rockWhich, like a pillar, seemed to showSome drowned acropolis below.Meanwhile, in the warm sea about,With many a plunge and jolly shout,Our crew enjoyed their morning bath.The hairy skipper in his wrathLay cursing on the gunwale's rim:He loved a dip but could not swim;So, now and then with plank afloatHe'd struggle feebly round the boatAnd o'er the side climb puffing in,Scraping wide areas off his skin,Then lie and sun each hirsute limbOnce more upon the gunwale's rimAnd shout, with curses unavailing,"Come out! There's wind: let's do some sailing."A palm-leaf hat, that here and thereBobbed on the water, showed him whereSome venturous swimmer outward boundEscaped beyond his voice's sound.All heedless of their skipper's call,One group fought for the upset yawl.The conqueror sat astride the keelAnd deftly pounded with his heelThe hands that clutched his citadel,Which showed – at distance – like the shellRound which, unseen, the Naiad trainSport naked on the middle main.Myself had drifted far away,Meanwhile, from where the sail-boat lay,Till all unbroken I could hearThe wave's low whisper in my ear,And at the level of mine eyeThe blue vibration met the sky.Sometimes upon my back I layAnd watched the clouds, while I and theyWere wafted effortless along. —Sudden I seemed to hear a song:Yet not a song, but some weird strainAs though the inarticulate mainHad found a voice whose human toneInterpreted its own dull moan;Its foamy hiss; its surfy roar;Its gentle lapping on the shore;Its noise of subterranean wavesThat grumble in the sea-cliff caves;Its whish among the drifting milesOf gulf-weed from the Indian Isles: —All – all the harmonies were thereWhich ocean makes with earth or air.Turning I saw a sunken ledgeBared by the ebb, along whose edgeThe matted sea-weed dripped: thereon,Betwixt the dazzle of the sunAnd the blue shimmer of the sea,I saw – or else I seemed to seeA mermaid, crooning a wild song,Combing with arm uplifted longThe hair that shed its meshes blackDown the slope whiteness of her back.She held a mirror in her hand,Wherein she viewed sky, sea, and land,Her beauty's background and its frame.But now, as toward the rock I came,All suddenly across the glassSome startling image seemed to pass;For her song rose into a scream,Over her shoulders one swift gleamOf eyes unearthly fell on me,And, 'twixt the flashing of the seaAnd the blind dazzle of the sun,I saw the rock, but thereuponShe sat no longer 'gainst the blue;Only across the reef there flewOne snow-white tern and vanished too.But, coasting that lone island round,Among the slippery kelp I foundA little oval glass that layUpturned and flashing in the rayOf the down-looking sun. TheretoWith scarce believing eyes I drewAnd took it captiveA while thereI rested in the mermaid's lair,And felt the merry breeze that blew,And watched the sharpies as they flew,And snuffed the sea's breath thick with brine,And basked me in the sun's warm shine;Then with my prize I made my wayOnce more to where the sail-boat lay.I kept the secret – and the glass;By day across its surface passThe transient shapes of common thingsWhich chance within its oval brings.But when at night I strive to soundThe darkness of its face profound,Again I seem to hear the breezeThat curls the waves on summer seas;I see the isles with cedars green;The channels winding in between;The coves with beaches of white sand;The reefs where warning spindles stand;And, through the multitudinous shimmerOf waves and sun, again the glimmerOf eyes unearthly falls on me,Deep with the mystery of the sea.