On the shore of the Atlantic
Tempest rules and tempest flies
and wanders through the leaden skies,
and storm and sleet they beat our homes,
We hear from the deep the Atlantic’s groans,
from depth of abyss, a fearsome deep!
though foghorns guard our restful sleep.
The hills in heavy mournful cry
dusted with snow and winter’s wild breathe,
and we in our wooden homes have slept, safe and dry,
but waken and know our shelter the flimsiest kind
while the depths of the Atlantic sounds,
deeper and still deeper
In our minds.
