THERE on the white Pacific shore the pines Still serve their jealous gods, and late and soon The murmur runs along their rugged lines, "What black ship waits the crash of our typhoon?" And in this vigil circled, calm and proud, God-gates and temples glow with changeless noon, Their mysteries awing that young seraph-cloud Swan-like between the mountain and the moon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ANDREA DEL SARTO (CALLED THE FAULTLESS PAINTER) by ROBERT BROWNING LOVE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ARIZONA POEMS: 4. THE WINDMILLS by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER SOMEBODY'S DARLING by MARIE LA CONTE ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT by ALEXANDER POPE |