At Dieppe

The sea lies quieted beneath
The after sunset flush
That leaves upon the heap'd grey clouds
The grapes faint purple blush.

Pale, from a little space in heaven
Of delicate ivory.
The sickle moon and one gold star
Look down upon the sea.

Night, a grey sky, a ghostly sea,
The soft beginning of the rain.
Black on the horizon, sails that wane
Into the distance mistily.

The tide is rising.  I can hear
The soft roar broadening along;
It cries and murmurs in my ears
A sleepy old forgotten song.

Softly the stealthy night descends,
The black sails fade into the sky;
Is not this, where the sea-line ends,
The shoreline of infinity?

 ... 

The wind is missing on the sea,
The windy white foam dancers leap;
And the sea moans uneasily,
And turns to sleep, and cannot sleep.

Ridge after  ...  ridge uplifts wild hands,
And hammers at the land,
Scatters in liquid dust, and drifts
To death among the dusty sand.

On the horizon's nearing line,
Where the sky rests a visible wall,
Grey in the offing I divine
The sails that fly before a squall.

O is it death or life that sounds
Like something strangely known
In this subsiding out of strife,
This low sea monotone?

A sound scarce heard through sleep
Murmurs as the August bees
That fill the forest hollows deep
About the roots of trees.

O is it death or life, or is it
Hope or memory
That quiets all things with this breath
Of the eternal sea?