No wave is on the waters of the bay,
For the warm air upon its bosom sleeps,
And not a pulse-beat of the outer deeps
Disturbs the silver surface, where the day—
A diffused opal, neither mist nor ray,—
In soft unshimmering light the dream air steeps.
Yon barque, below, its slender tracery keeps
In lines unbroken as the cords that lay
Their pencilled netting on the upper sky,
Such peace pervades the solid-seeming sea.
We should not marvel if His feet went by
Who walked the printless waves of Galilee,
Leaving no dimple from his sandalled tread,
Only this warmer flush of sunrise light istead.
