We had lacked All we can grant back To men upon their sailing oceans That reside In their despondent eyes. They cry waves To the maidens whose devotion they gave Upon the furthest lands across From themselves, in the saddest miles Of whole loneliness. In speaking of dust, There can be spoken of silver Gracing cheeks that have been so meek, So submissive to the call of distant thunder. Waters of happiness Were our grace of plenty. Anguish and skin that trembles Becomes what we behold for silver. Resistant in our porcelain, September becomes our somber notes Of earliest fall, To the dutiful call Of a nation with its graves Of an ocean with its waves. Is our casket full of water, As it is full of silver? Dreams made of an ocean, beneath the moon Go out to the sailors, lost in loneliness, Lost in gloom.