THE tide comes in, and out goes tide; <br />it skirts the clifls, and in their shadow sees <br />the remnants of the days that fall <br />between a seagull's and a robin's call. <br />There is the bridge, and under flows <br />the rests of evening with its primulous <br />shows <br />it is a river made of listless sea <br />after it has explained its fierce integrity; <br />no thunder makes, or on rock heaves <br />it learns the place for plain humility, <br />and keeps reflection of some mindless <br />leaves. <br />These evening greens <br />that gather wistfully among <br />the ripening coronals of summer <br />when rain has done its streaming <br />and the sea has washed back <br />its waters into these little cities <br />made of whispered wish <br />and gentle, seabird thought, homely consecration; <br />airs vibrant with the felt glimmer of a day <br />gone down to glory of a sunken yesterday; <br />night stepping in, soft-shod and separate <br />in her smooth design; <br />these evening greens <br />that gather wistfully, making melody <br />of nothings in their tuneful <br />prime.<br /><br />Marsden Hartley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-robin-hood-cove/
