Classic Poem

The waves are pressing up with force,
Along the screaming shore;
Like Phantom hosts of warrior horse,
They charge, beneath the roar.

And each darts out a foamy tongue
As prone he falls, and dies:
The dirge of many a soul is sung
Beneath yon stormy skies.

And may it be my dirge of dust,
If she who has my plight,
If she I love shall wreck my trust,
And wrap my soul in night.