In what dim, half imagined place

Does the Titanic lie to-day,

Too deep for tide, too deep for spray,

In night and saltiness and space?

Oh, quiet must the sea-floor be!

And very still must be the gloom

Where in each well-appointed room

The splendor rots unto the sea.

Through crannies in the shattered decks

The sea-weed thrusts pale finger-tips,

And in the bottom’s jagged rips

With ghostly hands it waves and becks.

The mirrors in the great saloons

Sleep darkly in their gilt and brass

Save when the silent fishes pass

With eyes like phosphorescent moons.

On painted walls are slimy things,

And strange sea creatures, lithe and cool,

Spawn in the marble swimming pool

And shall, a thousand springs.

For as it is, so it shall be,

Untouched of time till Doom appears,

Too deep for days, too deep for years

In the salt quiet of the sea.