UNDER THE CLIFFS.

By Arthur Symons

BRIGHT light to windward on the horizon's verge;

To leeward, stormy shadows, violet-black,

And the wide sea between

A vast unfurrowed field of windless green;

The stormy shadows flicker on the track

Of phantom sails that vanish and emerge.

I gaze across the sea, remembering her.

I watch the white sun walk across the sea,

This pallid afternoon,

With feet that tread as whitely as the moon,

And in his fleet and shining feet I see

The footsteps of another voyager.