Classic Poem

Only silver and the crickets, and the moon straight up and still,
And a steamer thinking dim across the tide,
And the breathing of the backwash so thinly audible,
And the white night trembling wide.

The latch that holds the dream of a ghost lifts stealthily,
Lifts, and stirs, and lets a wind slip through:
And now the loosed wind raps a hollow knuckle on the sea,
And the sea stares a frightened blue.

The currents of the water fret against a sullen beach,
Soft phosphorus intrigues the hissing sand:
There is no voice, and yet I hear a strange and shadowy speech;
No hand, and yet I feel a hand!