Dark and tumultuous seas
Have quenched the lurid sun.
Vapors, flame riven, writhingly ascend,
And night comes winging on
’Cross sullen waves,
While Death upon the bowsprit waiting sits.
Bereft of hope,
Life’s running sands low spent,
No rudder steers—nor beacon’s flame
Tells us the course to sail.
Alone, alone, breathed on by awful fears,
Groping amidst life’s way for light, we drift.