Castlecliff

Dirty-grey, sandy wastes—
A mournful wind whispers
Its age-old sorrows to the tossing sea,
To the wheeling, screaming gull,
To the low-skied, black clouds.
In the west the sun is sinking
A blazing red disc of fire:
A moment of time, and it falls to rest
In its own funeral pyre.
Dark night comes on apace,
And fills my soul with loneliness;
Half fearing I know not what,
I leave these lands, forsworn of God,
To seek light, laughter, and warm blessedness.

—E.B.