Like the moan of a ghost that is doomed to rove,
Is the voice of the wind in Hungry Cove.
And the brier bites with a sharper thorn
Than the fang of hate, or the tooth of scorn.
And the twining vines are as cunningly set
As ever a poacher placed snare or net.
And the waves are hushed, and they move as slow
As fugitives making headway, tiptoe.
For Nature remembers, as well as Man,
The time and the place, and the Mary Ann.