The wind blows cold and the wind blow keen,
And the dreary wintry sleet is falling;
And ever the sand-dunes, white, between
The Ocean voice is calling.

Calls with the sound that the sailor fears;
And the gulls. Low-flying, hasten in,
And the bent boughs shiver in fringe of tears
While the long night hours begin.

But over the path thro' the Golden Door,
Where the troubled billows roam and flee,
Bonita's Light from its rocky shore
Shines out to the ships at sea.