By day it was merely a line,
the bottom in Ocean, the top in the sky,
a giant appearing benign
when seen by a distant and innocent eye.
The keeper, with cloth and with rod
on legs hard as granite, his weary brow damp,
ascended like Jacob to God,
rekindling glory with labor and lamp.
The mariners, weary and wise,
returning from ports in the Orient, found
when stars had been lost to their eyes,
a magical beacon for those homeward bound,
a sentinel searching the night,
a modern descendant who honors the name
of Pharos, the island of light,
antiquity's wonder of welcoming flame.
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