Here the choppy craze of the Bengal's bay
Vexes not the billows to bound and sound
Time has ripened their roll to a serene lay
They don't fret and foam and spray around.
The hour was four past meridian time
The sheen imaged the fever of the orb
Blazing to quench his white heat ere the chime
Rolled in the night with the concave of orbs -
Then the synergy of the trio rang in
As the sinking sun seemed reluctant to set
The earth reined in her pace to a slowing spin
In purpling notes the symphony was set -
It was the eve of eves for me on shore
Lost in the cosmic alchemy before.