When the tide is high and the spray flies wild
And storm-battered cliffs loom grey,
Gulls are flung like litter in the wind
Above the tossing boats in the bay.
Now grey-gloved fingers feel from afar,
A muffling shroud of fear,
For the mist's stolen in with a furtive glance
At the lighthouse winking on the pier.
The ******* surf on the shingle shore
Rattles like smugglers' bones
Stirring the dark and dreary depths
With gales of ghoulish groans.
Wrestling waves in a turmoil twist
Their heaving muscles in mounds,
And crash to a crescendo of spittle and spray -
A rejoicing of ocean sounds!