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Death has shaken out the sands of thy glass.
At the piping of all hands, When the judgment-signal's spread- When the islands and the lands And the seas give up their dead, And the South and North shall come; When the sinner is dismayed, And the just man is afraid, Then Heaven be thy aid, Poor Tom.
Far beneath the tainted foam That frets above our peaceful home, We dream in joy and wake in love Nor know the rage that yells above.
I saw two clouds at morning, Tinged with the rising sun, And in the dawn they floated on, And mingled into one. I thought that morning cloud was blest, It moved so sweetly to the West.