The sea, with the dying sun, died

To hills of rolling gray.

The far faint headland's lifting side

Loses the light of day.

Off-shore the misty islands burn

Beyond dark rocks and bars,

Where sea-swells lift, and fall, and turn

Under the silent stars.

Along the beach no slow surf dies.

The winds are still, still,

On sands where no long shadow lies

From a low sea-side hill.

Slow fingers creeping up the brow

Pull down a ghostly tree,

The islands fade, the headlands now

Slide gray in a gray sea.