In Robin Hood Cove Poem by Marsden Hartley

THE tide comes in, and out goes tide;
it skirts the clifls, and in their shadow sees
the remnants of the days that fall
between a seagull's and a robin's call.
There is the bridge, and under flows
the rests of evening with its primulous
shows
it is a river made of listless sea
after it has explained its fierce integrity;
no thunder makes, or on rock heaves
it learns the place for plain humility,
and keeps reflection of some mindless
leaves.
These evening greens
that gather wistfully among
the ripening coronals of summer
when rain has done its streaming
and the sea has washed back
its waters into these little cities
made of whispered wish
and gentle, seabird thought, homely consecration;
airs vibrant with the felt glimmer of a day
gone down to glory of a sunken yesterday;
night stepping in, soft-shod and separate
in her smooth design;
these evening greens
that gather wistfully, making melody
of nothings in their tuneful
prime.