My brain is beat with flukes and foam and
dreams of the sea,
and dreams of home,
and lancing at leviathans while
wondering, wondering:
Is all the world a whittler?
Whittling whales from every wild wood,
and whiter whales from wilder ivory?
Oh, whittler, take your stabs and strokes,
for creation is a painful thing for the created
and perhaps equally for the creator.