by Sara Teasdale
I saw a ship sail forth at evening time;
Her prow was gilded by the western fire,
And all her rigging one vast golden lyre,
For winds to play on to the ocean's rhyme
Of wave on wave forever singing low.
She floated on a web of burnished gold,
And in such light as praying men behold
Cling round a vision, were her sails aglow.
I saw her come again when dawn was grey,
Her wonder faded and her splendor dead—
She whom I loved once had upon her way
A light most like the sunset. Now 'tis sped.
And this is saddest—what seemed wondrous fair
Are now but straight pale lips, and dull gold hair.