/0/15166/coverbig.jpg?v=7abcd72e100efed7c3147235994a39f2)
Exile, what of the night?-
The tides and the hours run out,
The seasons of death and of doubt,
The night-watches bitter and sore.
In the quicksands leftward and right
My feet sink down under me;
But I know the scents of the shore
And the broad blown breaths of the sea.