By ALEXANDER ANDERSON.
A day of fading light upon the sea;
Of sea-birds winging to their rocky caves;
And ever with its monotone to me,
The sorrow of the waves.
They leap and lash among the rocks and sands,
White lipp’d, as with a guilty secret toss’d,
For ever feeling with their foamy hands
For something they have lost.
Far out, and swaying in a sweet unrest,
A boat or two against the light is seen,
Dipping their sides within the liquid breast
Of waters dark and green.
And farther still, where sea and sky have kiss’d,
There falls, as if from heaven’s own threshold, light
Upon faint hills that, half enswathed in mist,
Wait for the coming night.
But still, though all this life and motion meet,
My thoughts are wingless and lie dead in me,
Or dimly stir to answer at my feet
The sorrow of the sea.