My Sky-Line

Out from my bedroom window wide,
Across the quickly pulsing town,
In lazy slope the hill runs down;
And oft on its morning sky-line grey
Swift winds tear tangled clouds aside,
And through will glint the tardy day.
And oft against the dingy skies
Slow figures move in quaint array,
Till soon will lift book-weary eyes
And wonder dimly who are they
Who flit on the sky-line phantom-wise
When white dash breakers in the bay.

—C.H.A.