Classic Poem

The low bay melts into a ring of silver
And slips it on the shore's reluctant finger,
Though in an hour the tide will turn, will tremble,
Forsaking her because the moon persuades him.
But the black wood that leans and sighs above her
No hour can change, no moon can slave or summon,
Though leaning to the tide she hears nor heeds him.
Then comes the dark. From sleepy, shell-strewn beaches,
From long, pale leagues of sand and cold, clear water,
She hears the tide go out towards the moonlight.
The wood still leans … weeping she turns to seek him.
And his black hair all night is on her bosom.