Classic Poem

AT THE Ebb -H OUR

A S I hear through the midnight sighing,
The low ebb-tide withdrawn,
And gulls on the dark cliff crying
For far discernless dawn,
It seems that all life is lying
Within your very breath,
Yet I cannot believe in dying,
Or death.

As I hear, from the grey church tower,
The bell's unfailing sound
Peal forth hour after hour
To night's lone reaches round,
It seems as if Time's wan power
Would sear all things apace —
All, save in my heart one flower,
Your face.