EVANS BAY
The sun is low; the sailers are at rest; The changing skies blush shades of softest hue. The hills have faded save for golden crest That wishes dying day a warm adieu. Over the winding ways that pale to white, The toilers, greet the air that welcomes - night. ••■'■.
Ths moon is high above the fleeting clouds, And quivering shapes upon the mirror ride. A silvery mist the landscape dimly shrouds, And starry heavens reveal the creep--ing tide. All is now still : sweet are the dreams of sleep : Stemmed is the tide that carries to the deep. —C.M.B.
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Bibliographic details
Evening Post, Volume CIX, Issue 143, 20 June 1925, Page 15
Word Count
99EVANS BAY Evening Post, Volume CIX, Issue 143, 20 June 1925, Page 15
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