Long Island Sound

Emma Lazarus

I see it as it looked one afternoon
In August, by a fresh, soft breeze o’erblown.
The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon,
A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon.
The shining waters with pale currents strewn,
The quiet fishing smacks, the eastern cove,
The semicircle of its dark green grove,
The luminous grasses and the merry sun,
In the grave sky; the sparkle far and wide,
Laughter of unseen children, cheerful chirp,
Of crickets, and low lisp of rippling tide,
Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep,
Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon,—
All these fair sounds and sights I made my own.