The Lagoon

WE crept through reed-beds wet with dew, The sun went down in gold; Hoisting her round triumphantly, The moon showed red and bold. The unseen sea upon our right In splendid turmoil broke; The spindrift, driving ceaselessly, Was vague as drifting smoke. The grass-tree lances spiked our flesh, The brushed ferns wet our knees; The she-oaks, crooning steadily, Stirred in the late salt breeze. Thus, pushing on with velvet tread Beneath the lavish moon, We saw, spread wide, spread gloriously, All gold, the still lagoon. And on its breast (a picture this Recalling old-time Dons And Spanish galleons at sea) A squadron of black swans.