Port Morning (Samain)

The sun, by degrees emerging from fog,
Gilds the old tower and height of the masts;
And, casting her net through the darkened waves,
Makes the sea sparkle with argent mesh.

Here surge, touched by a far-off ray,
The porticoes of marbled architecture;
The wind, spiced, makes reverent adventure
In the limpid clear and fine of the morn'.

On the arsenals palpitate standards deployed;
And the petite children, whom petty games joy
Recall to the current the rings of old oaks,

While a stately vessel, blushed azure and purple,
Bounding and light in the sonorous spray,
Transports himself, with rippling sails, into the day.