Meeting at Night

Robert Browning (1812–1889)

THE GRAY sea, and the long black land;

And the yellow half-moon large and low;

And the startling little waves, that leap

In fiery ringlets from their sleep,

As I gain the cove with pushing prow,

And quench its speed in the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach;

Three fields to cross, till a farm appears:

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch

And blue spurt of a lighted match,

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,

Than the two hearts, beating each to each.