The Lighthouse

Yes, Desolation, on her viewless wing,
 Even now, perhaps, is speeding with the blast
 In deathful haste;—with angry visiting
 The surges sweep around us, and the mast,
 Bereft of sail, bends like a fragile reed
 Submissive to the storm. But for yon light
 I had begun to deem this dreary night,
For us, would have no morn. In greatest need,
 When through life's sea man's erring bark is driven,
 Thus doth the beacon Hope with friendly gleam
 Speak peace unto his soul; and though its beam
 Bring not immediate aid, it can create
 Courage to bear the buffetings of Fate
With patience, till he reach the sheltering port of Heaven.