All on that isle, upon whose shore,
The wrecked and shipless wash.
Whose bounty offers but enough,
To sustain but not provision,
That which would bid the tempest-tossed,
To make of her a home, a vision.
Do not fret when she, her offerings cease,
But again to the shore return.
To salvage from the wreckage the wood,
Umarred by maggot, still sound and seaworthy.
And from that floatsom, build a ship,
Of better design, and differing destination.
- Peter C. Assante
