Battle Sleep

SOMEWHERE, O sun, some corner there must be Thou visitest, where down the strand Quietly, still, the waves go out to sea From the green fringes of a pastoral land. Deep in the orchard-bloom the roof-trees stand, The brown sheep graze along the bay, And through the apple-boughs above the sand The bees' hum sounds no fainter than the spray. There through uncounted hours declines the day To the low arch of twilight's close, And, just as night about the moon grows gray, One sail leans westward to the fading rose. Giver of dreams, O thou with scatheless wing Forever moving through the fiery hail, To flame-seared lids the cooling vision bring, And let some soul go seaward with that sail!