DAWN IN PLYMOUTH HARBOR.
But half awake, the ripples twine,
And brimming, tangle into wine;
More vibrant than adoring strings,
A random pennon slowly bears away;
The fleet, alert to greet the day,
In buoyant beauty, spreads its wings,
With glowing expectation, preened for flight,
An airy phantasy of light.
In raptured unison the morning nears;
The Oreads on distant hills have heard the ripple-song,
On, past the gilded Gurnet, trails the snowy-pinioned throng,
Old Saquish far behind,
’Till ’mong the sister-clouds it disappears.