4
The clouds have left the sky,
The wind hath left the sea,
The half-moon up on high
Shrinketh her face of dree.
She lightens on the comb
Of leaden waves, that roar
And thrust their hurried foam
Up on the dusky shore.
Behind the western bars
The shrouded day retreats,
And unperceived the stars
Steal to their sovran seats.
And whiter grows the foam,
The small moon lightens more;
And as I turn me home,
My shadow walks before.