Masts at Dawn

Past second cock-crow yacht masts in the harbor go slowly
                                                                          white.

No light in the east yet, but the stars show a certain fatigue.
They withdraw into a new distance, have discovered our
                                         unworthiness.  It is long since

The owl, in the dark eucalyptus, dire and melodious, last
                                                            called, and
Long since the moon sank and the English
Finished fornicating in their ketches.  In the evening there
                                                       was a strong swell.

Red died the sun, but at dark wind rose easterly, white sea
                                   nagged the black harbor headland.

When there is a strong swell, you may, if you surrender to it,
                                                               experience
A sense, in the act, of mystic unity with that rhythm.  Your
                                                  peace is the sea's will.
But now no motion, the bay-face is glossy in darkness, like

An old window-pane flat on the black ground by the wall,
                                                near the ash-heap.  It neither
Receives nor gives light.  Now is the hour when the sea

Sinks into meditation.  It doubts its own mission.  The drowned
                                                                                    cat
That on the evening swell had kept nudging the piles of the
                                                           pier and had seemed

To want to climb out and lick itself dry, now floats free.  On
                          that surface a slight convexity only, it is like

An eyelid, in darkness, closed. You must learn to accept the
                                                  kiss of fate, for

The masts go white slow, as light, like dew, from darkness
Condensed on them, on oiled wood, on metal.  Dew whitens in
                                                                           darkness.

I lie in my bed and think how, in darkness, the masts go
                                                                        white.

The sound of the engine of the first fishing dory dies seaward.
                                                                         Soon
In the inland glen wakes the dawn-dove.  We must try

To love so well the world that we may believe, in the end, in
                                                                                    God. 

                                                                                           -Robert Penn Warren