One with the ruined sunset, The strange forsaken sands, What is it waits, and wanders, And signs with desparate hands?
What is it calls in the twilight -
Calls as its chance were vain?
The cry of a gull sent seaward Or the voice of an ancient pain?
The red ghost of the sunset, It walks them as its own, These dreary and desolate reaches . . .
But O, that it walked alone!
