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