White sand and cedars; cedars, sand; Light-houses here and there; a strand Strewn o’er with driftwood; tangled weeds; A squad of fish-hawks poised above The nets, too anxious-eyed to move; Flame-flowering cactus; wingëd seeds, That on a sea of sunshine lie Unfanned, save by some butterfly; A sun now reddening toward the west;— And under and through all one hears That mellow voice, old as the years, The waves’ low monotone of unrest. So wanes the summer afternoon In drowsy stillness, and the moon Appears; when, sudden, round about The wind-cocks wheel,—hoarse fog-horns shout A warning, and in gathering gloom Against the sea’s white anger loom Tall shapes of wreckers, torch in hand, Rattling their life-boats down the sand!
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