He swore that boatmen all, excepting none,
Should penance pay for the sin of one.
He planned and worked, and then he worked and planned,
Not idle night or day;
Sentinel sandhills raised he on the strand
In some mysterious way;
On sloping hills he planted phantom trees
That changed their shapes with every changing breeze.
Now when the south wind, singing, came inshore,
As gentle as could be,