The church spire rises
Over the weeping bay;
Does its shadow not
Know these mazarine depths?

Veil of salt-sprayed muslin
And lantern of isinglass;
These shores are parched
And know no quenching.

Tender is the coming
Of autumn's windswept heralds
That cry the song
Of men's restless hearts.

The wind becomes emboldened
Lemon trees swaying desultory,
Their acid perfume enthralling
The fields, the forests.

And from the sea
Arrives the longing once
Held so dearly, now
Held by earth embalming.

The church spire rises
Over the weeping bay;
Does time not know
The shortness of days?