A dead calm and mist
F. Hart
(Towards evening)
The slow heave of the sleeping sea
With pulse-like motion swells and falls,
And drowsily a stray gull calls
The very wail of melancholy;
All day the moveless mist has slept
On the same bosom east winds swept:
No breath of change in the grey mist,
Save just a dream of amethyst.