Poems (Henley)/A desolate shore

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III
A desolate shore,The sinister seduction of the Moon,The menace of the irreclaimable Sea.
Flaunting, tawdry and grim,From cloud to cloud along her beat,Leering her battered and inveterate leer,She signals where he prowls in the dark alone,Her horrible old man,Mumbling old oaths and warmingHis villainous old bones with villainous talk—The secrets of their grisly housekeepingSince they went out upon the padIn the first twilight of self-conscious Time:Growling, hideous and hoarse,Tales of unnumbered Ships,Goodly and strong, Companions of the Advance,In some vile alley of the night ​Waylaid and bludgeoned—Dead.
Deep cellared in primeval ooze,Ruined, dishonoured, spoiled,They lie where the lean water-wormCrawls free of their secrets, and their broken sidesBulge with the slime of life. Thus they abide,Thus fouled and desecrate,The summons of the Trumpet, and the whileThese Twain, their murderers,Unravined, imperturbable, unsubdued,Hang at the heels of their children—She aloftAs in the shining streets,He as in ambush: at some accomplice door.
The stalwart Ships,The beautiful and bold adventurers!Stationed out yonder in the isle,The tall Policeman,Flashing his bull's-eye, as he peersAbout him in the ancient vacancy,Tells them this way is safety—this way home.
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