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?