How quietly, in this small bay,

noon ripples over noon in summer, smudging

yesterday's tidemarks! As the discreet horizon

throws off its morning wrap of haze,

swimmers climb in and sprawl about the rocks,

chided by screaming kittiwakes. There's silence

inland, where a hawk's above;

he poises on his invisible perch, and takes

off on a level flight to the hill-pinewood,

leaving a new tranquillity.

Stealthy as fairies on the water, yachts

come out to race, and hover near the lighthouse—

half fish, half birds or flowers—their bones

of wood, their canvas petal-wings with the bluff

sea and the bright wind in brave alliance.

Persuaded by their tautened ropes,

the roused-up watchers gather energy

and sigh it out, past rocks golden with lichen,

to speed the spirit of the sharpened

sails. This afternoon is hung with boasts

and prophecies—all one when the moon rises,

waltzing-matilda from the sea;

and the small craft, unrigged, are idle, and safe

as shoes laid by the fender, in the firelight.