The Oarsman, at the oars
The Arctic winds: the galley,
Captain at the helm—
The ghosts of leprosy—
The dead men from the sea,
No sun: pestilence
All could see the cliff-tower
The hour draws near—to trembling
Hissing: from the oarsman’s lips
Passengers bellow: with arctic-eyes
Oozing the demon with a kiss
Coming closer to land and mist
The dead sit up within the boat
The Polar-demon, rows and rows
Utter cold, no miracles—
Lo, the harbor: the ores stops
Deathly, dread-ly —no one talks
Ice-berg- eyeballs—stares and stare
A tide of intolerable silence—
Flows and ebbs, and flows again
For hell’s henchman: Agaliarept
Flung to the wide side of the vessel
“You will serve me well,” he echoes:
The voyaging is now total.