Stabbed through and slashed by lightning keen,
Unsouled, and grim to see,
Hangs o’er the hushed ravine.
A hundred masts, a hundred more,
Crowd close against the sunset-fires.
Their late adventure o’er,
They mingle with the spires.
But one is lying prone, alone,
Where gleaming gulls to seaward sweep,
White sand of burial blown