Whose tender blue is flecked with clouds of light;
A fleet of boats, with dusky sails outspread,
Fast dropping out of sight.
Tall, beetling cliffs that purple shadows throw
Athwart still pools where ocean treasures hide;
Low undertones—which ever clearer grow—
From the in-coming tide.
A perfect peace! Here never comes the strife
That ever waits upon the race for gold;
Here in still grooves goes on the march of life,