In the great ash-pit of Jehoshaphat The bones cry for the blood of the white whale, The fat flukes arch and whack about its ears, The death-lance churns into the sanctuary, tears The gun-blue swingle, heaving like a flail, And hacks the coiling life out: it works and drags And rips the sperm-whale's midriff into rags, Gobbets of blubber spill to wind and weather, Sailor, and gulls go round the stoven timbers Where the morning stars sing out together And thunder shakes the white surf and dismembers The red flag hammered in the mast-head.
In the next stanza, the speaker is back in the present, on the street. Shrestha, Roma.
Its broken windows are boarded. Who will dance The mast-lashed master of Leviathans Up from this field of Quakers in their unstoned graves?
Moments later the speaker makes it clear that he is looking at a bronze relief that faces the Statehouse. II Whenever winds are moving and their breath Heaves at the roped-in bulwarks of this pier, The terns and sea-gulls tremble at your death In these home waters.
The stream flows down under the druid tree, Shiloah's whirlpools gurgle and make glad The castle of God.