The Last Harbor

Eve sends her silver arrows up
O'er night's rim. The waters lap,
Languorously lapping at the heaven's fringe.
Lo, a mast, tilted 'gainst the silver sky,
Writes the log of wearying voyages,
Slow scribing, pressing Westward valiantly,
And the winds with insistent cadence,
Harp the chords the sea sings unto.
That holy hour when portward tilts the prow!
Lo, the hovering moon, white with the wine
Of reality, drunk with the actual incidents
Enacted beneath her tender gaze,
And the stars, glittering, count the conquests.
Behold that holy hour and the tilted mast
Pointed harborward. It is late. Low sags
The craft in heavy weighting of its cargo.
The silver-rimmed clouds press their lips
Upon a bloody sky. Night descends,
And the winds lay ruthless hands upon the prow-
Bidding it whither, swirling it thither.
Night descends!
That pitlike vault beyond contains the harbor!
Lo, in this holy instant
The craft makes sure-tilted on.
So, in this last lap of laggard coursing,
Doth life battle the waves in a chaos of darkness,
Prow tilted, mast bowed, riding-where?