Great Lakes legend has it there's a history here of a very tall man of mystery. Along the upper edge of Lake Huron on one of its islands there once lived a lighthouse keeper by the name of Morgan.

It's said that Morgan was so tall it was a miracle his feet could touch the ground; his lonliness so severe it spread a pall over Thunder Island, that pall spread almost to nearby Alpena.

Thunder Island in the night was rarely without a foggy mist muffling echoes and chasing shadows from the shore on one side of it to the rocks and sands of the beach on the other. Further, it is fabled in song that lighthouse keeper Morgan did ultimately perish there of his loneliness.

So tall was he, they say, that no one knew the color of his eyes. So sad he was, it's said that his soul grew hugely wise.

And he perished of lonliness sure as you're born, and he died all alone so; so sad and forlorn.

Morgan. Lonely Morgan.
It's a forgone conclusion that the man had to die.

It was winter. As cold a chill season
as anyone, anywhere, ever had seen,
the kind of a cold that was deeper than deep
the kind of a cold that was meaner than mean.

It was colder than cold,
one made bolder than bold so
that lonely friend Morgan could
never grow old.

There was (it seems) no choice at the end.
It came to be plain: his big heart felt such pain
that it burst in his chest
as it drove him insane.

He died of a heart aching deep from the cold.
Though the cold itself couldn't quite still it.
It was loneliness finally that ended our man.
T'was pure loneliness, that was what willed it.

A cruel, cutting loneliness
got him at last.
In an ultimate ugly and terrible blast,
the cold grip that held too increasingly fast,
that's what forced out the gasp
that killed Morgan.