Alone, but grand in red and white,
The lighthouse grips the rocky cliff.
It waits for velvet black of night
To save the lost, with all its might.

The moon controls the crashing tides;
From mighty ship to smallest skiff,
With every sailor, terror rides,
But faithfully, the lighthouse guides.

The beacon warms the icy dark;
The melting hearts, no longer stiff.
A foghorn blows - the sailors hark!
To find the way toward their mark.

The boats glide smoothly on the foam,
And carefully, they pass the cliff.
With fears aside, and seas to roam,
They safely turn their rudders home.