Bath at Sunset

The voices wane behind Mount Ursine,
As I lift the line from the rocky crest;
Seven-forty, not even a brine,
The water is warm, I ponder, undress.

From the deeper blue, a fairer sight,
The crimson gleam paints the sky’s dome,
'Mid clouds compelled to gather tight,
And a crescent moon veiled in gloam.