ON OCEAN’S BOSOM
Now every man is calling on his God
To save the people from a certain death.
The children weep, the women wail in fear,
The folk confess their sins, with desperate mind;
And souls are fluttering, bodies quivering,
In terror of the mad, destructive wind.
But in the steerage down below, two men
Sit quietly; no pangs their heart-strings thrill.
They seek no rescue and they make no plans,
As if all things around were safe and still.
The water roars, the billows foam, the winds
Howl with prodigious tumult as they blow;
The boiler gasps, the smokestack buzzes loud,
But calm and silent are the men below.
Coolly they gaze into the eyes of Death;
They care not for the tempest’s dangerous might.
It seems as if the spectre Death himself
Had reared the two, in terror and dark night.
“Who are you, tell me, miserable men,
That you can hide all signs of pain and dread—
That even at the awful gates of death
You have no sighs to breathe, no tears to shed?
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