And the village hearths are warm.
Near and nearer drives the ship
To the sands of Provincetown;
And pitiful faces glimmer ashore,
And a-sea the sailors drown.
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A cry for help i' the darkness
When help could never be;
A voice that rings thro' tempest crash
From the lips of Italy;
Despair, that knows not tongue nor tribe,
Is the interpreter;
The women wring their hands; the men
Look and cannot stir.
The life-lines meet no answering touch
But the fingers of the foam;
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Make up Mid-Year Examinations.
