When the crowns closed, and the last shift returned from the shaft beneath the sea,
we heard them first, for every man was singing.
As each, in turn, rose to the sunset glow, on harmonies born from the gates of hell,
that even drowned the breakers on the granite far below.
I asked the last man what he remembered from his years beneath the ground.
He said at end of shift, when all was quiet, the drill was stopped, the pumps were far away,
before going to the shaft with all its singing.
In silence he would listen, and in silence he would pray.
What did you hear? Seas breaking over, close above the mine.
He'd catch the water from the tunnel roof, he'd taste for salt, then silently he'd pray
All who worked neath ocean and neath granite, he said the sound of waves above would haunt him all his days.
And what of today? Crown's engine house is a silent empty shell.
The shaft is gone, and all who sang so fine.
I never felt the granite tremble neath the swell,
but I heard the last shift rising toward the sunlight,
and I can still remember singing out of the gates of hell.