When little lights in little ports come out,
Quivering down through water with the stars,
And all the fishing fleet of slender
Range at their moorings, veer with tide about;
When race of wind is stilled and sails are furled,
And underneath our single
The curve of black-ribbed deck gleams palely white,
And slumbrous waters pool a slumbrous world;--Then, and then only, have I thought how
Old age might sink upon a windy youth,
Quiet beneath the riding-light of truth,
Weathered through storms, and gracious in retreat.
