AMBERGRIS 
5 
So the cliffs their Song . . . For the mist regathers, 
Girds them bride-like, fit for the sun to kiss them ; 
Darkness falls like dewfall about the hill-sides ; 
Night is upon me. 
 
Now to me remain in the doubtful twilight 
Stretches bare of flower, but touched with whispers, 
Grey with huddled rocks, and a space of woodland, 
Pine-tree and poplar. 
 
Now a stream to ford and a stile to clamber ; 
Last the inn, a book, and a quiet corner . . . 
Fresh as Spring, there kisses me on the forehead 
Sleep, like a sister.