And, just as night about the moon grows gray,
One sail leans westward to the fading rose.
Giver of dreams, O thou with scatheless wing
Forever moving through the fiery hail,
To flame-seared lids the cooling vision bring
And let some soul go seaward with that sail.
ELEGY
[1918]
Ah, how I pity the young dead who gave
All that they were, and might become, that we
With tired eyes should watch this perfect sea