Within the womb of possibility.
A wind new-wakened combs the silken sea,
Lifting the foam like some unearthly flower.
The lights still glimmer all along the quay:
And overhead a flight of hurried stars
Seek hiding swiftly, e’er the day shall be.
Ships pass like spectres, little white-sailed ships,
Gliding away towards their destiny.
The earth, expectant, seems to thrill and wait
For some loved being; through the eastern gate