I know where clings among the rocks and kelp,
And shelvy sands that boil at ebbing tide,
Far from the folk on whom she called for help,
Far from the fog-swept lighthouse yellow-eyed,
A battered steamer on her iron side,
With stacks inclining to the setting sun,
Like rusty cannon whose last booming died
On some abandoned fortress: she is one
With all on land or sea whose mighty works are done.