Between the dun sea-grass the river winds,
Slender and silvered 'neath the quiet hills;
The sun is low, now its warm light thrills,
With faintest rose, to beauty all it finds.
Beyond the bar the ocean's voices beat -
The mighty searchings of its ceaseless heart.
Low heard, its longings seem but to impart
A fuller stillness to this far retreat.
Not gifted with exultant voice to ring,
The languid waves scarce whisper on the shore
And yet in crimson flame-points more and more
They paint the evensong they cannot sing.
The glory wanes, a heron from the sands,
In outline dim, against the twilight bay,
Sees earth and heaven pass in dusk away.
Content, in utter, desolate peace he stands.