Sights of sail are caught on the edge—
Black coasters waiting the flood;
Nest of spars that stroke like the sedge
Long rivers of sunset blood.
Gleam of lamps low down in the west,
Gulls crying over the bar,
Sea as still as a child at breast,
Moon following up a star.
That is to-night—and our own to twist
Round memory's finger and hold,
As guerdon for those we've lost or missed

While fretting and fighting for gold.