At Anchor

Sights of sail are caught on the edge— Black coasters waiting the flood; Nest of spars that stroke like the sedge Long rivers of sunset blood.

Gleam of lamps low down in the west, Gulls crying over the bar, Sea as still as a child at breast, Moon following up a star.

That is to-night—and our own to twist Round memory's finger and hold, As guerdon for those we've lost or missed While fretting and fighting for gold.