In a crumbling glory sets
The unhastening sun;
The fishers draw their shining nets;
The day is done.
Across the ruddy wine
That brims the sea
Black boats drag shoreward through the brine
Dreamily,
And dark against the glow
Firing the west,
By three and two the great gulls go
Seaward to rest.
Beneath the gradual host
Of heaven, pale
And glimmering, rides a dim sea-ghost,
A large slow sail.
Slowly she cometh on
Day's last faint breath,
Drifting across the water, wan
And gray as death.
From what far-lying land
Swimmeth thy keel,
Dim ship? And what mysterious hand
Is at thy wheel?
What far-borne news for me?
What vast release?
Quiet is in my heart, and on the sea
Peace.
( Balboa, California )