Till yon low band
Of charméd strand
Puff seaward dreams from the inner land,--
Till, lapped in mild half-lights, our dream-blown boat
Is felt to float, to fall, to float.

A sundown rose
Delays and glows
O'er yon spired peak's remoter snows.
Uprolling soon
A red-ripe moon
Lolls in the pines in drowsed half-swoon;
And thin moon-shades pace out to us, and shift
Our visions as we drift, and drift.

From night-wide blooms
In coppice glooms
Set outward voyaging spice perfumes.
The slow-pulsed seas,
The shadowed trees,--
The night-spell holds us one with these,
Till, Love, we scarce know life from sleep,--we seem
To smile a little, dream, and dream.



TIDES.


Through the still dusk how sighs the ebb-tide out,