⁠When the greasy wind-rack lowers,
Apart and at peace and alone,
⁠He counts the changeless hours.
⁠He wars with darkling Powers
(I war with a darkling sea);
⁠Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not he!

There was never a priest to pray,
⁠There was never a hand to toll,
When they made me guard of the bay,
⁠And moored me over the shoal.
⁠I rock, I reel, and I roll—
My four great hammers ply—
⁠Could I speak or be still at the Church's will?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

The landward marks have failed,
⁠The fog-bank glides unguessed,
The seaward lights are veiled,
⁠The spent deep feigns her rest: