Like fins of numberless white sharks, the foam
Cleaves the blue, wrinkled surface of the bay,
And on the cliffs the massive combers build
Fragile ephemeral lattices of spray.
This was the bay the slant-browed fishers sailed
In boats of raddled reeds; and this shall be
The shrunken salt-thick water seined by none
When the last sun, a red and rusty hinge
Torn from the sky, lets down eternity.