Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 15
But westward, look, the land is bright.
Arthur Hugh Clough.
CCXXX
THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.
Oft in the stilly night
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,