The gray sea, and the long black land;

And the yellow half-moon large and low;

And the startled little waves, that leap

In fiery ringlets from their sleep,

As I gain the cove with pushing prow,

And quench its its speed in the slushy sand. 


Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach;

Three fields to cross, till a farm appears: 

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch

And blue spurt of a lighted match,

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, 

Than the two hearts, beating each to each. 


– Robert Browning

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