THE wind blows wild on Bos'n Hill, Far off is heard the ocean's rote; Low overhead the gulls scream shrill, And homeward scuds each little boat. Then the dead Bos'n wakes in glee To hear the storm-king's song; And from the top of mast-pine tree He blows his whistle loud and long. The village sailors hear the call, Lips pale and eyes grow dim; Well know they, though he pipes them all, He means but one shall answer him. He pipes the dead up from their graves, Whose bones the tansy hides; He pipes the dead beneath the waves, They hear and cleave the rising tides. But sailors know when next they sail Beyond the Hilltop's view, There's one amongst them shall not fail To join the Bos'n's Crew. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD DINNER IN A QUICK LUNCH ROOM by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE MEASURE OF THE YEAR by JAMES GALVIN MATER AMABILIS by EMMA LAZARUS READING WHITMAN IN A TOILET STALL by TIMOTHY LIU TO-MORROW TO FRESH WOODS AND PASTURES NEW' by AMY LOWELL |