It is the moss that wholly hides
The rotted old oak-stump.
"The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,
'Why, this is strange, I trow!
Where are those lights so many and fair,
That signal made but now?
"'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said—
' And they answer'd not our cheer!
The planks look warp'd! and see those sails
How thin they are and sere!