Mary C. Gillington
From Sonnets of This Century (1887)
At last 'tis gone, the fever of the day,--
Thank God, there comes an end to everything;
Under the night-cloud's deepened shadowing,
The noises of the city drift away
Thro' sultry streets and alleys; and the grey
Fogs round the great cathedral rise and cling.
I long, and long,--but no desire will bring
Against my face the keen wind salt with spray.
O far away, green waves, your voices call,
Your cool lips kiss the wild and weedy shore;
And out upon the sea-line, sails are brown,--
White sea-birds, crying, hover,--soft shades fall,
Deep waters dimple round the dripping oar,
And last rays light the little fishing town.