The Setting of Antares

By George Sterling

The skies are clear, the summer night is old.
    The foamless ocean reaches to the West,
    With troubled moonlight on its tranquil breast,
Weary of grief eternally retold.
Now is that hour when winds and waters hold
    A truce of silence and inducing rest,
    And now, like ocean-eagles to their nest,
The stars go seaward, silvery and cold.

Antares, heart of blood, how stir thy wings
Above the sea's mysterious murmurings!
    The road of death leads outward to thy light,
        And thou art symbol for a time of him
        Whose fated star, companionless and dim,
Sinks to the wide horizon of the Night.

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