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Tide at Twilight 

The surf withdraws, a silver sigh,

drawing faith’s bright banners from the sky;

the shingle glistens, stripped and bare,

and evening cools the salted air.

Yet in the hush between the waves,

soft phosphor blooms in midnight caves;

and far beyond the cannon’s moan,

a lantern sways where ships drift home.

We walk the strand — the darkling plain

still murmurs with its ghostly train —

but hand in hand, beneath the dim,

we trace a path the stars have trimmed.

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