Now the full tide swallows the sandspits; Night in fog-slippers walks the Pacific. Under the gray weathered pilings the river Murmurs and gossips while from their anchorage Out slip the gillers, foaming the waters, Dropping their seines in a circle behind them... Like myriad spiders spinning at twilight. Blue is the sky by the night-rack enshrouded, Blue the Columbia, like polished metal, Blue are the hills with Astoria hidden... Deepening, darkening, silencing blue! Then comes a stab from the light on old North-head, Flame darting out for a second. Again Blue over all till the flash like a poinard Stains the Columbia briefly, is gone. As at a signal a pale golden pinpoint Wavers a moment over the water. Then there are others, every seine-anchor Lifts up its candle, dipping and staggering On the dark water till all the gillers Have lighted the torch-buoys, eerily dancing. I have seen sun-stars... vast constellations, And I remember also the gillers Starring the river. |