AT the outer edge of the world,
Where the long grey mists arise,
Between the sunset and the sea
I gaze with longing eyes.
O the twilight and dreams for me,
And the things my fancy paints --
My hopes the light upon the sea
Which slowly faints and faints.
The surge and beat of the sea,
The mournful and endless dole, --
They swell with a thousand questionings
And overflow my soul.
William Stanley Braithwaite
