Each time it tried to get into the sea,
The waves resisted entering and swept
Tumbling the turtle back
With weed in welter and wrack
Holding it as in fee;
And still it kept
Confronting the whole Atlantic, until home
It went in the swash and disappeared like foam.
Daisies were growing where now crickets are sowing
The dusk, only just months ago—it seems like a week;
The eye of the day has closed, and the voices of night
Say how that season is gone—or so it seems that they speak
To me as I go through the fields once shining with bright
Daisies, as the stars increase in the dying of light.