The Sailor's Grave at Clo-oose, V.I.

Out of the winds' and the waves' riot,

Out of the loud foam,

He has put in to a great quiet

And a still home.

Here he may lie at ease and wonder

Why the old ship waits,

And hark for the surge and the strong thunder

Of the full Straits,

And look for the fishing fleet at morning,

Shadows like lost souls,

Slide through the fog where the seal's warning

Betrays the shoals,

And watch for the deep-sea liner climbing

Out of the bright West,

With a salmon-sky and her wake shining

Like a tern's breast, —

And never know he is done for ever

With the old sea's pride,

Borne from the fight and the full endeavour

On an ebb tide.