THE bay is set with ashy sails, With purple shades that fade and flee, And curling by in silver wales The tide is straining from the sea. The grassy points are slowly drowned, The water laps and overrolls The wicker peche; with shallow sound A light wave labors on the shoals. The crows are feeding in the foam, They rise in crowds tumultuously, "Come home," they cry, "come home, -- come home, And leave the marshes to the sea." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE AGED STRANGER; AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR by FRANCIS BRET HARTE PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 28. AS-BAZIR by EDWIN ARNOLD THE NEW JERUSALEM by AUGUSTINE LANDSCAPE by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE LOVE POEMS: 5 by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: ON MY TWENTY-FOURTH YEAR by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE FORFEIT by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR |