The Wood Far Inland

I CLOSE mine eyes in this lone inland place,
This wood, far inland, thronged with sombrous trees--
Our southland pines--in whose dark boughs the breeze
Mourns like a spirit shorn of joy and grace;
The same wild genius whose half-veilèd face
Dawns on the barren brink of wave-washed leas,
Fraught with the ancient mystery of the seas,
Whose hoary brow bears many a storm-bolt's trace;
I close mine eyes; but lo! a spiritual light
Steals round me: I behold through foam and mist
A dreary reach of wan, slow-shifting sand,
By transient glints of flickering star-beams kissed,
And bear upborne athwart the desolate strand
Voices of ghostly billows of the night.