The old tarpaulins dripped with salt,
And flapped it in the eyes and face.
The dawn rolled in with rush and roar,
And blubbered with an outworn groan,
And up the sand-dunes’ terraced sides
In layers were the waters blown.
At last the drift of wreckage came;
What matters that to you or me?
Wild, with the east wind in their teeth,
The hounds of Death ran out to sea.