:Poem
The wave-tips rise,
and the light rises with them,
and the old men, sweetened by grief,
sit out in the early breeze;

the light is a sun at the edge of the wave,
the bay is a meadow of lights.

And the old men dream
of the ungreened perpetual hills,
hills still warm with memory;

in those hills, we are each offered up;

in our last moment,
we see nothing but light.