  Oh, fisher-fleet, go in from the sea And furl your wings. The bay is gray with the twilit spray And the loud surf springs. The chill buoy-bell is rung by the hands Of all the drowned, Who know the woe of the wind and tow Of the tides around. Go in, go in! O haste from the sea, And let them rest— A son and one who was wed and one Who went down unblest. Aye, even as I whose hands at the bell Now labour most. The tomb has gloom, but O the doom Of the drear sea-ghost! He evermore must wander the ooze Beneath the wave, Forlorn—to warn of the tempest born, And to save—to save! Then go, go in! and leave us the sea, For only so Can peace release us and give us ease Of our salty woe. |
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