Lo, find we here when the ripe day is o'er
A kingdom of enchantment by the shore!
Behold the sky with early stars ashine,
A jewelled flagon brimmed with purple wine.
Like a dumb poet's soul the troubled sea
Moans of its joy and sorrow wordlessly;
But the glad winds that utter naught of grief
Make silver speech by headland and by reef.
Saving for such there is no voice or call
To mar the gracious silence over all
Silence so tender 'tis a sweet caress,
A most beguiling and dear loneliness.
Lo, here we find a beckoning solitude,
A winsome presence to be mutely wooed,
Which, being won, will teach us fabled lore,
The old, old, gramarye of the sibyl shore!
Oh, what a poignant rapture thus to be
Lingering at twilight by the ancient sea!