Pale cliffs and sky
Grow dim, and dimmer;
The headlands die,
And scarcely glimmer.
Night climbs, and in a breeze
Touches the trees.
The house is still,
And the grey moths flit
Under the hill
That covers it;
And catching the sea’s hiss,
We dream, not kiss.
And one star glows
In the peach-pale west,
And nothing shows
On the bay’s dark breast,
And ghostly whispers pass
Through the dry grass.