Far out, and swaying in a sweet unrest,
A boat or two against the light is seen,
Dipping their sides within the liquid breast
Of waters dark and green.
And farther still, where sea and sky have kiss’d,
There falls, as if from heaven’s own threshold, light
Upon faint hills that, half enswathed in mist,
Wait for the coming night.
But still, though all this life and motion meet,
My thoughts are wingless and lie dead in me,