THE sea-sand drifts about my feet and whitens on the dunes,
While, still complaining to the sky, the rocking water croons;
The salt, salt spray blows in by day, by night the breakers roar;
The white sea-horses toss their manes, all trampling on the shore.

All hours I hear the whistling-buoy across the long tides cry,
And watch the smoke of steamships trail along the down-bent sky,
And see the fog-bank mountains build, or doze and dream all day,
Or count the sails of fisher-boats, or watch the porpoise play.

But night at last steals down the sky, and be it late or soon,
And be the ocean inky black, or whitening to the moon,
Or ruffling to a quiet wind, or, storm-lashed, breaking high,
All night on all its changing moods I keep a watchful eye,

And coastwise throw a steady beam, by which the good ships steer;
And meanwhile sounds the whistling-buoy to bid them come not near.
We have the trade of states to guard, and lives of sailor-men,
And sleep not till the screaming gulls call up the day again.

And when the little fisher-boats come beating up the bay,
We call them in by pier and port, or bid them steer away.
So up and down our coasts they ply, and fear its reefs no more
While whistling-buoy and lighthouse keep their watch along the shore.