O pale green sea,
With long, pale, purple clouds above –
What lies in me like weight of love?
What dies in me
With utter grief, because there comes no sign
Through the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line?
O salted air,
Blown round the rocky headland still,
What calls me there from cove and hill?
What calls me fair
From thee, the first-born of the youthful night,
Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight?
O yellow Star,
Quivering upon the rippling tide –
Sendest so far to one that sigh’d?
Bendest thou, Star,
Above, where the shadows of the dead have rest
And constant silence, with a message from the blest?