By Francis Bret Harte
“The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare;
The spray of the tempest is white in air;
The winds are out with the waves at play,
And I shall not tempt the sea to-day.
“The trail is narrow, the wood is dim,
The panther clings to the arching limb;
And the lion’s whelps are abroad at play,
And I shall not join in the chase to-day.”
But the ship sailed safely over the sea,
And the hunters came from the chase in glee;
And the town that was builded upon a rock
Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock.
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