Funereal chilled the air. Along the beach,
The dying day trailed purple scarfs of mist,
And high above the wind's long fingers' reach,
The evening sky was hollow amethyst.

Each plumèd palm its fronded head sad waved,
Amid the sombre dusk's gray mourning pall,
Above where Day lay cold and shadowy graved,
And one pink cloud its silver tears let fall.

Only the sun warm smiled. No cause for tears
He found, though all the breakers sobbed forlorn;
His cheerful face strove to allay their fears—
For after death is not the day re-born?