The frigates on the upper floor,
rose and fell with the magic planks,
everywhere of silver,
several of nature's people,
pink, small, and punctual,
with little yellow boys and girls.
a seashell,
and into the blue away they flew.

A sore must be a storm,
with threatening tunes and low,
in the howling storm, with ancient shadows,
From its present path way on the surf-tormented shore,
with tumult as they thuner by.

After the storm,
the sun burns crimson bright,
where the long grey mist arises,
creatures lived,
felt dawn,
saw sunset glow,
They waited for darkness and a place to shine,

The silence like an ocean roared as if a hundred drums did roar,
as these that twice bell,
the sounding sea,
In this short life,
the word is dead as a seashell,
and to understand the sea,
is a blessing.

At moonhigh,
the dark water glitttered like diamonds,

the sea shall never cease to roar,
and somedaay my children will,
inherit the wind.