Though retreating mist still clings to the eastern dunes,
And sailboats yet tug against moorings in the outgoing tide,
The rising sun is below the horizon by but two degrees,
And soon will end dawn’s dreamy promise of escape.
Below the ramparts there the canon will belch fire,
And thunderous blasts bellow across the bay.
Black powder clouds will swirl in blue sky,
And perfume a passing breeze with adventure.