Wide and wild, rounding earth’s corners ever,
Knitting my hammock strung from pole to pole,
I notice little, concerned with my own tides;
But have observed Hastings and will her destroy.
Rarely I raise my head, I gaze below
Where I breed monsters in the glass: I know
Man, he scours my skin with little ships
I do not object to, though shrug off sometimes—
They are pretty below, gray shells, though above be ugly. …
Strange creatures on the land may be at home
Whose shores I gladly fringe with tasseled foam.
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