When the old moon hangs to the cloud's gray tail
And the stars play in and out;
When the East grows red and the West looks pale
And the wind goes knocking about;
When over the edge of the shapeless coast,
Where the horizon bites the cloud,
The rack of the rain stalks in like a ghost
And a sail blows through its shroud—
When the morn is such, of the noon beware!
For this calm's a stormy feint:
A reef in the sail is better than prayer,

For a snug ship needs no saint.