The Quaker Graveyard in Nantucket

    I

    A brackish reach of shoal off Madaket——

    The sea was still breaking violently and night

    Had steamed into our North Atlantic Fleet，

    When the drowned sailor clutched the drag-net.  Light

    Flashed from his matted head and marble feet，

    He grappled at the net

    With the coiled， hurdling muscles of his thighs：

    The corpse was bloodless， a botch of reds and whites，

    Its open， staring eyes

    Were lustreless dead-lights

    Or cabin-windows on a stranded hulk

    Heavy with sand.  We weight the body， close

    Its eyes and heave it seaward whence it came，

    Where the heel-headed dogfish barks it nose

    On Ahab's void and forehead； and the name

    Is blocked in yellow chalk.

    Sailors， who pitch this portent at the sea

    Where dreadnaughts shall confess

    Its heel-bent deity，

    When you are powerless

    To sand-bag this Atlantic bulwark， faced

    By the earth-shaker， green， unwearied， chaste

    In his steel scales： ask for no Orphean lute

    To pluck life back.  The guns of the steeled fleet

    Recoil and then repeat

    The hoarse salute.

    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.  Sailor， can you hear

    The Pequod's sea wings， beating landward， fall

    Headlong and break on our Atlantic wall

    Off 'Sconset， where the yawing S-boats splash

    The bellbuoy， with ballooning spinnakers，

    As the entangled， screeching mainsheet clears

    The blocks： off Madaket， where lubbers lash

    The heavy surf and throw their long lead squids

    For blue-fish？  Sea-gulls blink their heavy lids

    Seaward.  The winds' wings beat upon the stones，

    Cousin， and scream for you and the claws rush

    At the sea's throat and wring it in the slush

    Of this old Quaker graveyard where the bones

    Cry out in the long night for the hurt beast

    Bobbing by Ahab's whaleboats in the East.

    III

    All you recovered from Poseidon died

    With you， my cousin， and the harrowed brine

    Is fruitless on the blue beard of the god，

    Stretching beyond us to the castles in Spain，

    Nantucket's westward haven.  To Cape Cod

    Guns， cradled on the tide，

    Blast the eelgrass about a waterclock

    Of bilge and backwash， roil the salt and sand

    Lashing earth's scaffold， rock

    Our warships in the hand

    Of the great God， where time's contrition blues

    Whatever it was these Quaker sailors lost

    In the mad scramble of their lives.  They died

    When time was open-eyed，

    Wooden and childish； only bones abide

    There， in the nowhere， where their boats were tossed

    Sky-high， where mariners had fabled news

    Of IS， the whited monster.  What it cost

    Them is their secret.  In the sperm-whale's slick

    I see the Quakers drown and hear their cry：

    "If God himself had not been on our side，

    If God himself had not been on our side，

    When the Atlantic rose against us， why，

    Then it had swallowed us up quick."

    IV

    This is the end of the whaleroad and the whale

    Who spewed Nantucket bones on the thrashed swell

    And stirred the troubled waters to whirlpools

    To send the Pequod packing off to hell：

    This is the end of them， three-quarters fools，

    Snatching at straws to sail

    Seaward and seaward on the turntail whale，

    Spouting out blood and water as it rolls，

    Sick as a dog to these Atlantic shoals：

    Clamavimus， O depths.  Let the sea-gulls wail

    For water， for the deep where the high tide

    Mutters to its hurt self， mutters and ebbs.

    Waves wallow in their wash， go out and out，

    Leave only the death-rattle of the crabs，

    The beach increasing， its enormous snout

    Sucking the ocean's side.

    This is the end of running on the waves；

    We are poured out like water.  Who will dance

    The mast-lashed master of Leviathans

    Up from this field of Quakers in their unstoned graves？

    V

    When the whale's viscera go and the roll

    Of its corruption overruns this world

    Beyond tree-swept Nantucket and Wood's Hole

    And Martha's Vineyard， Sailor， will your sword

    Whistle and fall and sink into the fat？

    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.  Hide，

    Our steel， Jonas Messias， in Thy side.

    VI

    OUR LADY OF WALSINGHAM

    There once the penitents took off their shoes

    And then walked barefoot the remaining mile；

    And the small trees， a stream and hedgerows file

    Slowly along the munching English lane，

    Like cows to the old shrine， until you lose

    Track of your dragging pain.

    The stream flows down under the druid tree，

    Shiloah's whirlpools gurgle and make glad

    The castle of God.  Sailor， you were glad

    And whistled Sion by that stream.  But see：

    Our Lady， too small for her canopy，

    Sits near the altar.  There's no comeliness

    at all or charm in that expressionless

    Face with its heavy eyelids.  As before，

    This face， for centuries a memory，

    Non est species， neque decor，

    Expressionless， expresses God： it goes

    Past castled Sion.  She knows what God knows，

    Not Calvary's Cross nor crib at Bethlehem

    Now， and the world shall come to Walsingham.

    VII

    The empty winds are creaking and the oak

    splatters and splatters on the cenotaph，

    The boughs are trembling and a gaff

    Bobs on the untimely stroke

    Of the greased wash exploding on a shoal-bell

    In the old mouth of the Atlantic.  It's well；

    Atlantic， you are fouled with the blue sailors，

    sea-monsters， upward angel， downward fish：

    Unmarried and corroding， spare of flesh

    Mart once of supercilious， wing'd clippers，

    Atlantic， where your bell-trap guts its spoil

    You could cut the brackish winds with a knife

    Here in Nantucket， and cast up the time

    When the Lord God formed man from the sea's slime

    And breathed into his face the breath of life，

    And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.

    The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.