Is all our fire of shipwreck wood,
Oak and pine?
Oh, for the ills half-understood,
The dim, dead woe
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?