Quiet

Where wooded hills run downward to the sea,
Beside a land-locked harbour, still and deep,
There stands a little town with narrow streets,
Where all the air is breathless and asleep.
There, as the evening deepens into night,
The fishing-boats glide in with dusky sails,
And from the cottages thin wisps of smoke
Steal up; and in the streets the half-light fails
And there is silence. Then soft lights appear,
And I could wish that they might never cease
To light this place of stillness, while the earth
And sky, united, sleep again at peace.

School poems