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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