Evening

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.