A trumpet sketches notes of light
mellow in the mellow night
and in its simple melody
immortalises stars and sea.
This swansong of the world at large
is soft and sweet , not brash and huge,
and judging now of earth and sea
it predicates for you and me.
The flowing winds and tides are come
to build our universal tomb;
the flesh, the warm flesh of the heart
cannot withstand their fretting art.
Yet the end of now , and the end at length
compounds of sweetness still , and strength,
and walking on this easy shore
we have no right to ask for more
than what the cynic waves have said
is good, to make the sands a bed.

Let others other pleasures prove ;
I’ll ask no more of you , my love.