Like a gaunt, scraggly pine
Which lifts its head above the mournful sandhills;
City of night,
Wrap me in your folds of shadow.
At the first hour, it was as if one said, "Arise."
At the second hour, it was as if one said, "Go forth."
And the winter constellations that are like patient ox-eyes
Sank below the white horizon at the north.
In the morning I saw three great ships
Becalmed on an infinite horizon.
Crooked, crawling tide with long wet fingers
Clutching at the gritty beach in the roar and spurt of spray,
Tide of gales, drunken tide, lava-burst of breakers,
Black ships plunge upon you from sea to sea away.