Warning

When the old moon hangs to the cloud's gray tail And the stars play in and out; When the East grows red and the West looks pale And the wind goes knocking about;

When over the edge of the shapeless coast, Where the horizon bites the cloud, The rack of the rain stalks in like a ghost And a sail blows through its shroud—

When the morn is such, of the noon beware! For this calm's a stormy feint: A reef in the sail is better than prayer, For a snug ship needs no saint.