To an Ancient Grave-Stone Maker on the Atlantic
Fine irony Fate here has wrought;
At sea thy boasted craft is naught.
Though one lay drowned by every wave,
Thou couldst not mark a single grave.
Thy works are for the land alone;
The waves that claim will mark their own;
And shall when all that in thee trust,
Thou, and thy works, have turned to dust.
At sea thy boasted craft is naught.
Though one lay drowned by every wave,
Thou couldst not mark a single grave.
Thy works are for the land alone;
The waves that claim will mark their own;
And shall when all that in thee trust,
Thou, and thy works, have turned to dust.
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