SEANCE

Hovering wings of terns

Over the rock-pools flutter,

For the tide, ebbed far out,

Seems to stumble and stutter;

Seems like a spirit lost,

Unable to come again

Back to the wonted ways and days

Of ever-wanting men.

And the moon, a medium

Trance-pale, is laying her light

Over its surge — till, lo,

It turns from the deep and night.

And the spirit-word it brings

Is the message of all time,

That doubt is only the ebb of faith,

Which ever reflows sublime!