Into the evening hour she flees the gates
Of hell where she, enchained by love, was bound
Next to the brink of raging waves she waits
Then thrusts herself into Long Island Sound.
Schooners casually sailing water there
Beneath an oval, titanium moon,
Whose sailors, ignorant of her despair
Cast out their fishing nets that night in June.
Too late! Upon the sand stood her desire
Frantically searching shadows by the sea
His eyes locked on a mound of her attire
While his surmounting guilt forced him to flee.
Into the twilight hour he screamed her name
Which echoed through the rocks along the Sound
His silent tears ordained he was to blame
Into the water he leaped and there was bound.