On my long shore you are the sea.
Down my long night-time you are the free
White dashing curve of waves –
The white interminable curve that craves
Only the loving shingle and the sharp
Drawn breath of rhythmic dark
Beneath which pebble ranges shift
Against the searching under-drift
Of foam-soft fingers.
The tall moon still lingers
Over palm-trees seaward tilting;
My long shore’s still lilting,
My long night-time’s iridescent
Under your wave-beat.
Why lead this present
Ever into future? why, Lord, this night
Ever into dawn-light?