Seance

Hovering wings of terns Over the rock-pools flutter, For the tide, ebbed far out, Seems to stumble and stutter; Seems like a spirit lost, Unable to come again Back to the wonted ways and days Of ever-wanting men.

And the moon, a medium Trance-pale, is laying her light Over its surge--till, lo, It turns from the deep and night. And the spirit-word it brings Is the message of all time, That doubt is only the ebb of faith, Which ever reflows sublime!