When a heavy surf is droning
In the twilight on the bar;
When our Mother Sea is crooning
Her quaint cradle-song afar;
When the wild black swans are lining
To some still, remote lagoon;
And above the headland, shining,
Hangs a quiet, crescent moon;
When the panoply, the splendor
Of the tropic sunset dies, —
Then my Fancy turns to tender
Dreams beneath the queenly skies.
Dear-loved Loadstone of my longing.
Fair, fond Woman of my heart!
When the twilight thoughts are thronging.
Art thou dreaming, too, apart?
Yes, my Spirit echoes truly;
'Circling seas shall, with the tide.
Pulse on either shore of Thule,
In the Dream Beatified.
'Surely as the mystic Crescent
Silvers now a garden fair,
Will the shining, white, liquescent
Light of Love burn also there!**
So I mourn not that the splendor
Of the dead Day lies in pall.
When the Night her brooding, tender
Wings of fantasy lets fall.
In the dusk Tm sitting, building
Tall cloud-castles by the sea ;
In the dusk my Love is gilding
Castles fair for her and me.