At The Ebb-Hour

As I hear, thro the midnight sighing, The low ebb-tide withdrawn, And gulls on the dark cliff crying For far discernless dawn, It seems that all life is lying Within your every breath, Yet I can not believe in dying, Or death.

As I hear, from the gray church tower, The bell's unfailing sound Peal forth hour after hour To night's lone reaches round, It seems as if Time's wan power Would sear all things apace-- All, save in my heart one flower, Your face.