THE CABIN ON THE CLIFF
The little cabin seems to wearSuch a panic-stricken air—Clinging perilously highSilhouetted on the sky.
There is such a tragic fearIn the furtive eyes that peerDown upon the ocean's jaw,Red and ravenous of maw.
Such a terror in her soulWhen the casual pebbles roll,—Oh, the frantic nervous gripping,Fearful that her hands are slipping!
Such a never-ending dreadOf the forest overhead,—Wondering when the inching spruceWill crowd her aching fingers loose.
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