Which gathering soon its sweet surrendering dreams
Offers them to the yet invisible fire
That sends its fore-glow from below the rim,
Till they aspire in little golden vapours
And flicker to the pure and passionless skies,
The colour of pale melted sapphires—so
These driftings of the ocean's moon-trance mount,
And through the morning, briefly luminous,
Waver, and cease, above a brightening tide.
Then lo! the swift shrill flight of sudden gulls,