The east is yellow as a daffodil.Three steeples—three stark swarthy arms—are thrustUp from the town. The gnarlèd poplars thrillDown the long street in some keen salty gust—Straight from the sea and all the sailing ships—Turn white, black, white again, with noises sweetAnd swift. Back to the night the last star slips.High up the air is motionless, a sheetOf light. The east grows yellower apace,And trembles: then, once more, and suddenly,The salt wind blows, and in that moment’s spaceFlame…