I mark the shore where storm winds sweep
Across the black volcanic sands,
Where one bronze idol, tilted, stands,
Whose lips are charged with dark commands,
And curses from the nether deep.
Its wrists once girt with golden bands,
Purloined by pirates one grey dawn,
Before its subjects rose to fawn
Upon that lofty idolís lawn
Who ruled this islandís many lands.
Now gone those grand and royal years,
Green mosses beard its jutting chin,
The bronze has worn near paper thin,
Like some sad soul long plagued with sin,
And sea gulls nest within its ears.
Long have these eyes of ebony
Glared on the teeming ocean there,
Its head held high in mist-white air,
Though now so old, in disrepair,
Will topple soon into the sea.