And the organ-shrill of the equinox,
Which musters the hordes in line,
Comes echoing back from the low frontier,
And crags where the breakers boom,
Like the crooning notes of a lorelei,
For I am the sleuth of Doom.
And ever the cry of the wander-lure,
Alert with a lifting wing,
Is urging me on through the sludge and spume,
With a sugg and a heave and swing.