Finisterre

that on some forsaken strand,Lone ending of a lonely land,On such an eve we two were lying,To hear the quiet water sighingAnd feel the coolness of the sand.

A red and broken moon would growOut of the dusk and even soAs here to-night the street she faces,Between the half-distinguished spacesOf sea and sky would burn and go.

The moon would go and overhead,Like tapers lighted o'er the dead.Star after silver star would glimmer,The lonely night grow calmer, dimmer,The quiet sea sink in its bed.

We, at the end of Time and Fate,Might unconcerned with love or hateAs the sea's voices, talk together.Wherefore we went apart and whither.And all the exiled years relate.

Thus were life's grey chance-'ravelled sleave'Outspread, we something might perceiveWhich never would to chance surrender,But through the tangled woof its slenderGolden, elusive pattern weave.

Then while the great stars larger shoneLeaned on the sea, and drew thereonFaint paths of light, across them faringMight steal the ship that comes for bearingSore-wounded souls to Avalon.

Margaret L. Woods