There are some silences that are not dark,
just as there are shadows made of silver.
Only a fool could fail to believe
but more the fool who thinks such days will last.
For love is like an ocean, wild or calm,
whose beauty is its changeless rule of change.
Yet every ocean has its time-teased shores
and every wanderer comes home at last.
Now fast at harbor, wiser, weatherbeaten,
an echo rages in the sailor’s bones
and he remembers to his dying day
bright silences and shadows made of silver.