To leave it a wreck within sight of home;
To smile as the mariners’ toils are o’er,
Then wash the dead to the cottage door,
And gently ripple along the strand,
To watch the widow behold him land.
Strange that the wind should be left so free
To play with a flower, or tear a tree;
To range or ramble where’er it will,
And as it lists, to be fierce or still;
Above and around to breathe of life,