The Tower

Rising out of a restless sea
Of rustling leaves, the lighthouse heaves
Its bricks a hundred and sixty feet
Into the air, and bravely glares 
Out at the endless, surging leagues 
Of tireless ocean laying siege 
To the tiny strand of rocks and sand 
And trees upon whose back it stands, 
And scans the waves with its rolling eye, 
And points its finger by and by 
At everything and everywhere, 
As if to say that there and there 
And there the shipwrecked sailors lie
Who had it stood would not have died.