Nocturne: Georgia Coast

　　by Daniel Whitehead Hicky

　　 The shrimping boats are late today；

　　 The dusk has caught them cold.

　　 Swift darkness gathers up the sun，

　　 And all the beckoning gold

　　 That guides them safely into port

　　 Is lost beneath the tide.

　　 Now the lean moon swings overhead，

　　 And Venus， salty-eyed.

　　 They will be late an hour or more，

　　 The fishermen， blaming dark's

　　 Swift mischief or the stubborn sea，

　　 But as their lanterns' sparks

　　 Ride shoreward at the foam's white rim，

　　 Until they reach the pier

　　 I cannot say if their catch is shrimp，

　　 Or fireflies burning clear