From its gloomy and sinister crown—
Ah me!
From its blasted and desolate crown!
And still, on the stretch of the moon-silvered sand,
With the ripple of waves on the bar
There comes, from a point jutting down from the land,
A discordant Voice, echoing far:
“Steer your boat, steer your boat for a star!”
There you are!
And the Voice is quite sure of the star!