Page:The Book of the Homeless (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1916).djvu/107



on some forsaken strand,

Lone ending of a lonely land,

On such an eve we two were lying,

To hear the quiet water sighing

And feel the coolness of the sand.

A red and broken moon would grow

Out of the dusk and even so

As here to-night the street she faces,

Between the half-distinguished spaces

Of sea and sky would burn and go.

The moon would go and overhead,

Like tapers lighted o'er the dead.

Star after silver star would glimmer,

The lonely night grow calmer, dimmer,

The quiet sea sink in its bed.

We, at the end of Time and Fate,

Might unconcerned with love or hate

As the sea's voices, talk together.

Wherefore we went apart and whither.

And all the exiled years relate.

Thus were life's grey chance-'ravelled sleave'

Outspread, we something might perceive

Which never would to chance surrender,

But through the tangled woof its slender

Golden, elusive pattern weave.