On this day in Maine, where the gulls bellow, the summer’s breeze, bend bluets mellow, sift blanch rocky beach, and salt-laden sea

Wherefore the seafarers go, and the winds may blow, on the paths we stray, from gravel to clay

Though in the end, we may pass, through fire and ash, and all the be left, are little sparks, ascending like stars, from dying embers we flee