To Frank Mathew, I

The large, calm harbour lies below Long, terraced lines of circling light: Without, the deep sea currents flow: And here are stars, and night.

No sight, no sound, no living stir, But such as perfect the still bay: So hushed it is, the voyager Shrinks at the thought of day.

We glide by many a lanterned mast; Our mournful horns blow wild to warn Yon looming pier: the sailors cast Their ropes, and watch for morn.

Strange murmurs from the sleeping town, And sudden creak of lonely oars Crossing the water, travel down The roadstead, the dim shores.

A charm is on the silent bay; Charms of the sea, charms of the land. Memories of open wind convey Peace to this harbour strand.

Far off, Saint David's crags descend On seas of desolate storm: and far From this pure rest, the Land's drear End, And ruining waters, are.

Well was it worth to have each hour Of high and perilous blowing wind: For here, for now, deep peace hath power To conquer the worn mind.

I have passed over the rough sea, And over the white harbour bar: And this is Death's dreamland to me, Led hither by a star.

And what shall dawn be? Hush thee, nay! Soft, soft is night, and calm and still: Save that day cometh, what of day Knowest thou: good, or ill?

Content thee! Not the annulling light Of any pitiless dawn is here; Thou art alone with ancient night: And all the stars are clear.

Only the night air, and the dream; Only the far, sweet-smelling wave; The stilly sounds, the circling gleam, And thine: and thine a grave.