Man Out of the deep and endless universe The Cricket The twilight is the morning of his day, While sleep drops seaward from the fading shore, With purpling sail and dip of silver oar, He cheers the shadowed time with roun delay, Until the dark east softens into gray. Now as the noisy hours are coming-hark! His song dies gently-it is growing darkHis night, with its one star, is on its way! Faintly the light breaks over the blowing oats Sleep, little brother, sleep: I am astir. We worship Song, and servants are of herI in the bright hours, thou in shadow-time; Lead thou the starlit night with merry notes, And I will lead the clamoring day with rhyme. In High Sierras There at a certain hour of the deep night, The Wharf of Dreams Strange wares are handled on the wharves of sleep: Shadows of shadows pass, and many a light Flashes a signal fire across the night; Barges depart whose voiceless steersmen keep Their way without a star upon the deep; And from lost ships, homing with ghostly crews, Come cries of incommunicable news, While cargoes pile the piers, a moon-white heap Budgets of dream-dust, merchandise of song, Wreckage of hope and packs of ancient wrong, |