The chinks suck destruction. The heavy dead bulk

On the living sea rolls an inanimate bulk, Like a corpse on the clay which is hungering to fold

Its corruption around it. Meanwhile, from the hold,

One deck is burst up by the waters below,

And it splits like the ice when the thawbreezes blow

O'er the lakes of the desert! Who sit on the other?

Is that all the crew that lie burying each other,

Like the dead in a breach, round the foremast? Are those

Twin tigers who burst, when the waters arose,

40

In the agony of terror, their chains in the hold,

(What now makes them tame is what then made them bold)

Who crouch, side by side, and have driven, like a crank,

The deep grip of their claws through the vibrating plank,