The sun has slipped its tether
And gathered down the west
The little bird is sleeping
In the softness of its nest
The cruel wind is rising
With a whistle and a wail
My eyes are seaward straining
For the coming the sail
I heard the bell-buoy
How long ago it seems
And ever still its knelling
Crashes in upon my dreams
The stretches of the ocean
Are bare and bleak today
My eyes are growing dimmer
Is it tears or age or spray