Is all our fire of shipwreck wood
Oak and pine?
Oh, for the ills half-understood
The dim dead woe
Long ago
Befallen this bitter coast of France!
Well, poor sailors took their chance;
I take mine

A ruddy shaft our fire must shoot
O’er the sea
Do sailors eye the casement-mute
Drenched and stark
From their bark—
And envy, gnash their teeth for hate
O’ the warm safe house and happy freight
—Thee and me?

God help you, sailors, at your need!
Spare the curse!
For some ships, safe in port indeed
Rot and rust
Run to dust
All through worms i’ the wood, that crept
Gnawed our hearts out while we slept:
That is worse