It seems you've been washed ashore!
sure, if horizons are your shore!
For you I'll hum a tune in the calm breeze;
for the red sun dancing in the westerlies.
What colors the clouds do sway:
ember, gold, crimson, gray.
While the night stalks the dying day,
the sun just dances
in the clouds of May!
Flowers fall asleep lulled by the breeze,
while the sun whisks away
the gold and cream
sprays more red, yet leaves a gleam
upon that shore; that golden seam.
The stars do tarry deep; amidst the dark,
and twilight is a snail; it crawls to the night!
Nor the day, nor the night can yield
these lights in that soaring field
when the sun falls from the golden shore
dancing in the finest eve!