In the twilight of the year,
Here, about these twilight ways,
When the grey moth night drew near,
Fluttering on a faint flying,
I would linger out the day's Delicate and moth-grey dying.
Grey, and faint with sleep, the sea Should enfold me, and release,
Some old peace to dwell with me.
I would quiet the long crying Of my heart with mournful peace,
The grey sea's, in its low sighing.
