HARBOR MOONRISE

THERE is never a wind to sing o’er the sea

On its dimpled bosom that holdeth in fee

Wealth of silver and magicry;

And the harbor is like to an ebon cup

With mother-o’-pearl to the lips lined up,

And brimmed with the wine of entranced delight, Purple and rare, from the flagon of night.

L0, in the east is a glamor and gleam, Like waves that lap on the shores of dream, Or voice their lure in a poet’s theme! And behind the curtseying fisher boats The barge of the rising moon upfloats,

The pilot ship over unknown seas

Of treasure-laden cloud argosies.

Ere ever she drifts from the ocean’s rim, Out from the background of shadows dim, Stealeth a boat o’er her golden rim;

N oiselessly, swiftly, it swayeth by

Into the boume of enchanted sky,

Like a fairy shallop that seeks the strand Of a far and uncharted fairyland.

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