There is no cloud upon the limpid sky,
No blur of vapor on the sea beneath;
The clear pools on the rock unwrinkled lie,
And, only stirred as by an infant's breath,
The salt grass rustles faint and fitfully.
No muffled landward echoes, borne afar,
Thrill through the moon-suffused tranquillity;
But where the breakers glimmer on the bar
A long, low murmur, like a summer rain,
Grows deep and organ-toned, then fails again.

The low moon's level wake across the waves
Leaps into splendor where they fall and rise
In silver-breasted hillocks, shadow-caves
And undulating whirls, that cheat the eyes
To fancies of strange monsters, and fair shapes
Of nereids and mermaids, crowned with shells
And soft sea-blooms from Southern coves and capes, —
Lifting their dripping bosoms from the swells
To gaze upon the moonlit world awhile
And beckon us with many a nod and smile.

And there are voices from the sea-chafed rocks,
In slippery clefts and hollows water-worn,
Where pulpy algae trail their slimy locks, —
Strange liquid tones, as of a Triton's horn,
Blown gurgling through green shallows, clear and low,
Soft laughter, and the plash of curved palms:
Round lonely isles and inlets, long ago,
The fisher heard such sounds through twilight calms
And, coasting homeward, with hushed utterance told
Of siren music sung to harps of gold.