By the fireside

Is all our fire of shipwreck wood,

Oak and pine?

Oh, for the ills half-understood,

The dim dead woe

Long ago

Befallen this bitter coast of France!

Well, poor sailors took their chance;

I take mine.

A ruddy shaft our fire must shoot

O'er the sea

Do sailors eye the casement-mute,

Drenched and stark,

From their bark—

And envy, gnash their teeth for hate

O' the warm safe house and happy freight

—Thee and me?

God help you, sailors, at your need!

Spare the curse!

For some ships, safe in port indeed,

Rot and rust,

Run to dust,

All through worms i' the wood, that crept,

Gnawed our hearts out while we slept:

That is worse.