There is never a day in the year but tells of thy glory gone forever, And never a dusk that hovers near in the sea-shells pink of the sky, But we sit in the chill adobe shade with hearts that are past endeavor---While the mists unfurl like the gates of pearl, as we watch the daylight die.
It seems like someone is thinking of the past. This is all taking place at a beach in Monterey, California. The mists is spreading and the night has arrived.
Stoddard, "Old Monterey", pg.227.
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