Lost
Desolate and lone All night long on the lake Where fog trails and mist creeps.
The whistle of a boat Calls and cries unendingly, Like some lost child In tears and trouble Hunting the harbor's breast And the harbor's eyes.
Carl Sandburg
Desolate and lone All night long on the lake Where fog trails and mist creeps.
The whistle of a boat Calls and cries unendingly, Like some lost child In tears and trouble Hunting the harbor's breast And the harbor's eyes.
At night, a solitary speaker is on a lake where fog trails and mist creep through the dark. Everything feels desolate and still except for one sound: a boat whistle that calls out again and again.
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