The Lighthouse Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
        And on its outer point, some miles away,
The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
         A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.

Even at this distance I can see the tides,
         Upheaving, break unheard along its base,
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
         In the white lip and tremor of the face.

And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,
         Through the deep purple of the twilight air,
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light
        With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare!

Not one alone; from each projecting cape
         And perilous reef along the ocean's verge,
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,
         Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge.

Like the great giant Christopher it stands
         Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
         The night-o'ertaken mariner to save.

And the great ships sail outward and return,
         Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn,
         They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.