A Desolate Shore

A desolate shore,     The sinister seduction of the Moon,     The menace of the irreclaimable Sea.     Flaunting, tawdry and grim,     From cloud to cloud along her beat,     Leering her battered and inveterate leer,     She signals where he prowls in the dark alone,     Her horrible old man,     Mumbling old oaths and warming     His villainous old bones with villainous talk -     The secrets of their grisly housekeeping     Since they went out upon the pad     In the first twilight of self-conscious Time:     Growling, hideous and hoarse,     Tales of unnumbered Ships,     Goodly and strong, Companions of the Advance,     In some vile alley of the night     Waylaid and bludgeoned -     Dead.     Deep cellared in primeval ooze,     Ruined, dishonoured, spoiled,     They lie where the lean water-worm     Crawls free of their secrets, and their broken sides     Bulge with the slime of life.    Thus they abide,     Thus fouled and desecrate,     The summons of the Trumpet, and the while     These Twain, their murderers,     Unravined, imperturbable, unsubdued,     Hang at the heels of their children - She aloft     As in the shining streets,     He as in ambush at some accomplice door.     The stalwart Ships,     The beautiful and bold adventurers!     Stationed out yonder in the isle,     The tall Policeman,     Flashing his bull's-eye, as he peers     About him in the ancient vacancy,     Tells them this way is safety - this way home.