There seems no wind in all the land.
Austere against the fading light
I see a lonely cypress stand,
As carved from steel and malachite.

Beyond, a single sea-bird flies
To gain its far and craggy home
Below the lemon-colored skies—
An ocean-islet ringed with foam.

In all the land there seems no stir
Save that or pinions westward flown.
Glad weather, fellow traveler!
To-night I also fare alone.