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Poem	WHAT can we say of the night? The fog night, the moon night, the fog moon night last night? There swept out of the sea a song. There swept out of the sea—torn white plungers. There came on the coast wind drive In the spit of a driven spray, On the boom of foam and rollers, The cry of midnight to morning: Hoi-a-loa. Hoi-a-loa. Hoi-a-loa. Who has loved the night more than I have? Who has loved the fog moon night last night more than I have? Out of the sea that song —can I ever forget it? Out of the sea those plungers —can I remember anything else? Out of the midnight morning cry: Hoi-a-loa: —how can I hunt any other songs now?
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