Pleasant it was at shut of day,
When wind and wave had sunk away,
To hear, as on the rocks we lay,
The fog bell toll;
And grimly through the gathering night
The horn's dull blare from Faulkner's Light,
Snuffed out by ghostly fingers white
That round it stole.
Somewhere behind its curtain, soon
The mist grew conscious of a moon:
No more we heard the diving loon
Scream from the spray;
But seated round our drift-wood fire
Watched the red sparks rise high and higher,
Then, wandering into night, expire
And pass away.
Down the dark wood, the pines among,
A lurid glare the firelight flung;
So for a while we talked and sung,
And then to sleep;
And heard in dreams the light-house bell,
As all night long in solemn swell
The tidal waters rose and fell
With soundings deep.