WHEN I sit silent on the swaying deck.
And drink in the soft splendour of the night.
The pale, proud moon; the sky, all cloud a-fleck;
The silver balls of phosphorescent light
In the white foam; the davits curving black
Against the sky; the tall and stately mast.
Swinging from star to star—though these all lack
Nothing of beauty, perfect, pure, and vast,
'Tis naught to me: save that I may devise
That I do look again into your eyes.
