Page:Emily Dickinson Poems (1890).djvu/92

 XIII.

THE SEA OF SUNSET.

HIS is the land the sunset washes, These are the banks of the Yellow Sea; Where it rose, or whither it rushes, These are the western mystery!

Night after night her purple traffic Strews the landing with opal bales; Merchantmen poise upon horizons, Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.