The oaks are mourning with feeble cries
The panic upon the shore,
Where rockets redden the cold, black skies,
And waters, like wild beasts, roar.

They say that the sea, gone raving mad,
Is trying to climb the cliffs,
And boomerangs with the ships are bad
When the mad sea laughs and lifts.

The black wave frills, like a flounce afloat
At the foot of a funeral pall,
As it carries the dead to a cave remote,
Deep hid in the dank sea wall.

The clumsy sea tomorrow will sigh
And sob in a contrite strain,
And kiss the feet of the cliffs and cry—
But our dead come ne'er again.