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Poem	Lo, find we here when the ripe day is o'er A kingdom of enchantment by the shore! Behold the sky with early stars ashine, A jewelled flagon brimmed with purple wine. Like a dumb poet's soul the troubled sea Moans of its joy and sorrow wordlessly; But the glad winds that utter naught of grief Make silver speech by headland and by reef. Saving for such there is no voice or call To mar the gracious silence over all Silence so tender 'tis a sweet caress, A most beguiling and dear loneliness. Lo, here we find a beckoning solitude, A winsome presence to be mutely wooed, Which, being won, will teach us fabled lore, The old, old, gramarye of the sibyl shore! Oh, what a poignant rapture thus to be Lingering at twilight by the ancient sea!
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