Sunlight and shrill cicada and the low, Slow, sleepy kissing of the sea and shore, And rumor of the wind. The morning wore A sullen face of fog that lifted slow, Letting her eyes gleam through of grayest glow; Wearing a look like that which once she wore When, Gloucesterward from Dogtown there, they bore Some old witchwife with many a gibe and blow. But now the day has put off every care, And sits at peace beside the smiling sea, Dreaming bright dreams with lazy-lidded eyes: One is a castle, precipiced in air, And one a golden galleon--can it be 'Tis but the cloudworld of the sunset skies?