The sea is calm tonight.

The tide is full， the moon lies fair　Upon the straits; on the French coast， the light　Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand，　Glimmering and vast， out in the tranquil bay.

Come to the window， sweet is the night-air!　Only， from the long line of spray　Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land，　Listen! you hear the grating roar　Of pebbles which the waves draw back， and fling，　At their return， up the high strand，　Begin， and cease， and then again begin，　　With tremulous cadence slow， and bring　The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago　Heard it on the Aegean， and it brought　Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow　　Of human misery; we　Find also in the sound a thought，　Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith　Was once， too， at the full， and round earth's shore　　Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.　But now I only hear　Its melancholy， long， withdrawing roar，　Retreating， to the breath　Of the night-wind， down the vast edges drear　And naked shingles of the world.

Ah， love， let us be true　To one another! for the world， which seems　To lie before us like a land of dreams，　So various， so beautiful， so new，　Hath really neither joy， nor love， nor light，　Nor certitude， nor peace， nor help for pain;　And we are here as on a darkling plain　Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight，　Where ignorant armies clash by night.