Classic Poem

O the glare of the sun on the dazzling waves
And the blinding line of white, —
They are not for me, for the spirit craves
The lure of the lessened light.

When the evening dies to a flower of gray,
Or the lily of morning pales;
When the mist comes drifting over the Bay
To shroud the moving sails;

When the dunes grow dim as the wing of the gulls
That flit o'er the ashen sea;
When the grayness grows and the glory dulls —
Ah, that is the time for me!