STORM-EBB

By Cale Young Rice

Dusking amber dimly creeps

Over the vale,

Lit by the kildee's silver sweeps,

Sad with his wail.

Eastward swing the silent clouds

Into the night.

Burdens of day they seem — in crowds

Hurled from earth's sight.

Tilting gulls whip whitely far

Over the lake,

Tirelessly on o'er buoy and spar

Till they o'ertake

Shadow and mingled mist — and then

Vanish to wing

Still the bewildering night-fen,

Where the waves ring.

Dusking amber dimly dies

Out of the vale.

Dead from the dunes the winds arise —

Ghosts of the gale.