By George Sterling

The west wind, sweet and cold,
  Mingles its voice with voices of the sea.
The brief and melancholy day, grown old,
  Lifts soundlessly
An agate sunset, veined with sullen gold….

So dies the winter day;
  So falls another leaf from life's wild rose,
Though caught in cloud the broken colors stay,
  And Lyra glows
On heavens lovelier for that delay.

Alone upon the shore,
  I watch the ruby passing from the stain,
And hear the surf's eternal "Nevermore!"
  Thou dost remain,
O beauty gathered to the spirit's core!

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