Of humble meadow-flowers.
On the lone beetling cliff,
Where moonlight streams in all its glory bright,
I see below the fishers, by its light,
Haul beechward their rude skiff:
And high above, the cot
Which they call home, stands in the glad moonlight,
Dear to their hearts and welcome to their sight,
When they are far afloat.
Here, as I linger, rapt,