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1865–1945

UNDER THE CLIFFS.

Arthur Symons

BRIGHT light to windward on the horizon's verge; To leeward, stormy shadows, violet-black, And the wide sea between A vast unfurrowed field of windless green;

The stormy shadows flicker on the track Of phantom sails that vanish and emerge. I gaze across the sea, remembering her. I watch the white sun walk across the sea,

This pallid afternoon, With feet that tread as whitely as the moon, And in his fleet and shining feet I see The footsteps of another voyager.

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UNDER THE CLIFFS. · Arthur Symons · Poetry Cove