All patterns of the day were merged in one— Clouds, wings and faces, dunes and harbour bars— In a swift blur of vision as the sun Went down at noon upon a drift of spars. In such a lightless hour the sea had cleft A heart, fumbling its way as through a strait, Then passed, bequeathing to the common weft No record but its arid distillate.

Though when night comes with sleep there still remains Enough of daylight and of surf to trace The artisan outside the storm-swept panes, Refashioning the pallor of his face To softer lines which thread my nescient mood With the illusion of beatitude.