Forenoon by the Pacific

By George Sterling

        The winds are faraway;
        The sea alone hath speech.
            The killdees play
In little hollows of the kelp-strewn beach.
Beyond, a wisp of fog has come to rest
        Upon the mountain's breast

            Here from a western steep
            I watch the sea-gull soar;
                Below, the deep
Darts a white chord along the curving shore
And brims the day with thunder. At my feet
             The unshaken dews are sweet.

            The hour is full of peace
            Too tenderly profound
                To fail or cease
At any call of lark, or ocean-sound.
Where lonely waters meet a loner sky
            The winds of morning die.

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