Art thou a creature a depraved by the waves?
Art thou a seagull, cresting for caves?
Art thou a whale, wanting to lie upon the shoals of my shore, with a sigh?
Know’st thou not, this air would make thee die?
Art though a wave, splashing toward me?
Would’st thou save me, by crashing down on my city?
Art thou monster with thine nails grown long,
Ready to swallow the swallows’ sad-song?
Art thou a beast—or art thou a boat?
Art thou a river—or art thou a moat?
Art thou an ocean, that streams toward the south
Till the seven seas swallow the earth, at the delta’s mouth?
Is this th’end-of-th’-end, for which we pray—
Or is this just th’end of th’end-of-the-day?
Art thou a tar slick, forcing the air from the tide?
Art thou an ark, upon which this river doth glide?
Art thou minnow, mating anew?
O, speak, thou—tell me, tell me: what is it are you?
Thou hast confounded me. What thing art thee
Afloat in the, afloat in the, afloat in the sea—
Wending toward watery, riding reeds thoroughly roddery—
Passing the lowland village poverty—toward me, toward me, toward me?
O! Thou art not a ‘tis. Thou art not what. Thou art a thee.
O: who’s it, who’s it, who’s it ye be?
Come, little-fellow, little night-man,
Little sea-sailor—sail toward me!
What man art thou, prithee, that contrivest the raft-rider my eyes see?
O, keep him from crevasses, this conduit castalion-ing—
You who done dashed him and dipped him deep-drawingly:
Don’t do and drown him in the river with dropsy!
Don’t ensteep in a ewer the floater who faces the font of fresh-brookly;
Ferry Man, ferry the frail fellow afloat fortunately!
Go, little gossamer, may the Giver hull you helpfully
Out from the gruel do the ground of this hurricane in-drenchedly.
Leak from the lake meshed, make it mock-waterly!
O, osiers: ogle! Ogle, and opine with me, the story of:
The man who plummeted in the pail of the ‘plash of the pool of sea!
Snow-broth, don’t steal him! As he rolls in the rosewater, rinse royally,
Submerged like King Tantalus, tantalized by the sea!
Tow him away from the tow, which would drown him so regally!
Wade with the water drops in the water-flow which is yesty!
Toward the wharf, waterside, would I have thee.
O! Thou art a man-babe—now I see thee;
Broken, broken, broken—by a Bilbo at sea!
Contagion, like a vapor, vexing thestily;
Canvas-climber, can I, can I save you, thee who hurts half such as ye?
Infirm-indigent-of-Illyria: I want to help you,
Who’s crestfallen inland opportunely!
Sailor—may I save you; for you’re ill impossibly?
Seafarer, or sea-fighter? I know not which, which, which one you be…
You sea-swallowed seeker, sick-fallen: sing your story straight-out, now to me!
O! You’re too sick, too sick, too sick, too sick to sing such a song to me.
I know, I know what I’ll do: I’ll take you back to the city
Tonight, tonight, when no one will be watching;
From the reeds, you will ride on my back till we wash you sad-thing.
Take you, we will make you cut out thy coughing.
Un-mar the dirt and pitch from you—
So you become a most beauteous thing!
Mothers don’t know, what mothers won’t know,
For mothers will sleep, sleep; and we’ll wend soundlessly!
For mothers would whine, and mothers would woe,
And woe: you’ve had causelessly—
You innocent boy, whom the spirited sea
Coughed up to the girl who was fishing for He
Who eats the fish we send through vassals who tax us, violently!
I wish well the woman who drowned your body to the body of the sea!
I wail word by wind on waves for the woman who waits for word of her wasted-he
Why she bid you, “Bye,” I’ll never know. How sad we know her, you’ll never again see.
Everyone needs their Mum. Every Mum needs her He.
Every Town needs its King. Every Land needs its Sea.
Come: we go! We go—far from whence you’ve come—to the place in the city
Where mothers do dwell with their children, whom we must pity.
Perhaps thou art the man —perhaps thou art the man
Sent to us to warn us when the next flood would be—
Art thou the man—art thou the man—sent to tether the tides of history?
Art thou that man, art thou that mine whom my wishes would send toward me
The woman who walks by the willows, with her linens and there is oft-washing,
Whilst wishing for the man, whilst wishing for the fish, whilst fishing for the wish-man Who will welcome her away from the willows, where she must always, always be—
Art thou the man;
Art thou that man come;
Art thou the man come to;
Art thou the man come to save—
Thou art the man come to save me
