A summer's day like sleep departs;
And summer's eve is but a dream.
My pensiveness is cloaked in steam,
That slothful haze of hamlets far.
And so I breathe, think, and stay strong:
By wondrous, blood-rimmed western shelf,
The hour I love like sleep itself,
No force remains to fear its song.
And at this hour before your prow,
I dwell amidst a sad soul's ash.
As thund'rous song and fear will clash
Beneath the raging waves of cloud.