STORM AT ANNISQUAM

The sun sinks scarlet as a barberry.

Far off at sea one vessel lifts a sail,

Hurrying to harbor from the coming gale,

That banks the west above a choppy sea.

The sun is gone; the tide is flowing free;

The bay is opaled with wild light; and pale

The lighthouse spears its flame now; through a veil

That falls about the sea mysteriously.

Out there she sits and mutters of her dead,

Old Ocean; of the stalwart and the strong,

Skipper and fisher whom her arms dragged down:

Before her now she sees their ghosts; o'erhead,

As gray as rain, their wild wrecks sweep along,

And all night long lay siege to this old town.