Rich orange flushed the pale horizon’s bar,
        Yet dark and unawakened lay the town
Without a breath of smoke, while Esk ran down
Beneath the glory of a single star;
The good wives slept, the fisher-boats were far:
You could not think that care was ever known
On yonder dreaming slope; no hint was shown
Of what laborious dawns and daylights are.
But still the planet wheeled to work and woe,
The orange faded fast to common light,
And that mysterious Abbey stood forlorn—
A hopeless ruin in the fuller morn;
An anxious boat went moving to and fro,
The smoke-wreaths rose, the sails were all in sight.

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 169)