AT THE EBB-HOUR

By Cale Young Rice

As I hear, thro the midnight sighing,

The low ebb-tide withdrawn,

And gulls on the dark cliff crying

For far discernless dawn,

It seems that all life is lying

Within your every breath,

Yet I can not believe in dying,

Or death.

As I hear, from the gray church tower,

The bell's unfailing sound

Peal forth hour after hour

To night's lone reaches round,

It seems as if Time's wan power

Would sear all things apace —

All, save in my heart one flower,

Your face.