Look! An inviting shore, a gentle beach,
With fields of long gold corn that reach
To the twin hills of beauty there.
The whole isle is wonderful and fair.
But the rocks are sharp and dangerous and proud,
And shipwrecked sailors curse and cry aloud,
As wiser they go limping sad away
To an easier port and a friendlier bay.
Is there no harbour small and sure,
A safe place for one ship to moor?
Unless she shows the welcome hand,
The lighthouse beam, the place to land,
Unless she gives a shelter fair
For a single ship to anchor there,
The bright green grass will turn to grey
And golden harvests waste away,
And trophies of past wrecks that sigh
Will float in circles round the bay,
As new young sailors smile and sail on by.