I

So, Her­man, what demons swim through your mind
that you make a mon­ster of a harm­less mam­mal,
singing to its fel­lows in the depths of the sea ?

Why did you peo­ple your Pequod with
scarred sailors and scared sav­ages;
why did you press your pages with
twist­ed scrip­tures and sea spir­its,
mak­ing us call you Ishmael ?

 

                              II

Or is it we who are denied
dreams born of dwelling by the deep ;
of truths torn from
sea­sons on the rest­less strand between sea and shore ? 

Not know­ing Nan­tuck­et,
do we not know our natures ?
What it must be to pit puny men
against the wrath of the waves.

A hand-held har­poon
or an enfold­ing cocoon ?

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