by Robert Laurence Binyon
Beautiful, cold, freshness of light reveals
The black masts, mirrored with their shadowy spars,
The hill--gloom and the sleeping wharf, and steals
Up magical faint heights of fading stars.
I hear the waves, on the long shingle thrown,
Slowly draw backward, plunge, and never cease.
Against that sea--sound the earth--stillness lone
Builds vaster in the early light's increase.
O falling blind waves, in my heart you break;
Outcast and far from my own self I seem,
With alien sense in a strange air awake,
The body and projection of a dream.
Turn back, pale Dawn, or bring that light to me
Which yesterday was lost beyond the sea.
Last updated January 14, 2019