At first the plash of sea and swimmer´s cries
Seemed innocent at night:
A late beach party, surely twelve or more,
Where the sand lies strewn
Over the neck of land neighboring the bridge,
Disporting themselves along the rocky shore.
That was at first. But now I know,
Having heard that piercing utterance
So often, and every night the same,
No swimmers ever make such sound.
Of late their cries grow louder
And they call my name:
the drear, sepulchral voices of the drowned.
