In Picardy
Waves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea—
A pale light on the horizon lingers and shines
That might shine round the Graal; and we
Stand very silent, underneath the pines.
Oh, swift expresses for the spirit’s flight!
Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know,
Looking roguishly back and flying onward—so
I follow, flashing after. Blessed night!
1912.