In the trail of their haunting cry;
Where the whispering lip and the ragged rip,
With the kiss of the tide entwine;
Where the billows crash and the rainbows flash,
And the heart of the world is mine.
OFF.
The wind is where we want it with a hornpipe in its heels,
The harbor-bar is spouting like a whale;
There’s the flash and splash of morning spun behind a dozen keels,
And a nixie-band a-whistling in the sail.