No more by the sands of the ocean we'll slumber, For now to the hills it is up and away, Nor tell of the stars in the east-sky their number, Nor strain for such tidings as sea-winds convey;
No longer we'll list in the pale of the star-light For cry of some night bird from over still dune; Nor gaze on the deep toward the flare of a far-light, Afade in the dull of the dim of the moon.
A group of people, speaking as "we," is leaving the seashore for the hills, and the whole poem is a list of small things they won't do anymore. They won't lie on the sand, count the stars, listen for news carried by the sea-wind, wait for a night bird's cry across the dunes, or watch a distant light flicker over the water. Nothing dramatic is said about why they are going. The poem simply lingers over what they're giving up.
That lingering is where the feeling lives. The repeated "no more," "nor," and "no longer" sound like a farewell said slowly, one item at a time, as if each habit deserves its own goodbye. The scenes are quiet and dim: starlight, still dunes, a far-light fading under a weak moon. The mood is gentle and wistful rather than bitter, a soft nostalgia for evenings spent in patient watching and listening, with the leaving already tinged by missing.