The sea-wash never ends. The sea-wash repeats, repeats. The sea-wash repeats, repeats. The voice of the last cricket across the first frost is one kind of good-by. It is so thin a splinter of singing.
Summer Stars Bend low again night of summer stars.
So near, a long arm man can pick off stars, Pick of what he wants in the sky bowl, So near you are, summer stars, So near, strumming strumming, So lazy and hum-strumming.