The cold remote islands
And the blue estuaries
Where what breathes, breathes
The restless wind of the inlets,
And what drinks, drinks
The incoming tide;

Where shell and weed
Wait upon the salt wash of the sea,
And the clear nights of the stars
Swing their lights westward
To set behind the land;

Where the pulse clinging to the rocks
Renews itself forever;
Where, again on cloudless nights;
The water reflects the firmament’s partial setting;

—O remember
In your narrowing dark hours
That more things move
Than blood in the heart.

Louise Bogan, “Night”