The sky's a-bruised with stormy clouds, That, in a flash, out-roar the sea; The wind cries in a morbid key, And tears the rain to ghostly shrouds. The lone boatsmen, beyond the tide, Are but rare twinkles of a lamp, Between the grey and restless ramps Of their cold, wet and bumpy ride. The lighthouseman, upon the cliff, Within his tall and sturdy home, Sounds the foghorn; tends the cone: -A rod of caring yellow mist.Birth sign: Cancer
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