Cicely Fox Smith
Thro' the dead dark water under skies aglow,
Thro' the shaken shadows silently and slow,
Thro' the looming dock-gates like a thief we glide,
Dropping down the Mersey on the midnight tide.
No crowd at the gangway, no clanging of the bells,
No crying out of women, or shouting of farewells,
Only sound of rising wind through the spars that strains,
And the coughing of the tide in the anchor-chains.
Fainter now behind us die the dock-lamps down;
Flaring like a furnace lies the light of town,
Fades the shore-line into dusk far on either hand,
And the stars burn out above us for the far lights of land.
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