Alas! The Marquesas! Shun the beckoning land! Choose the open sea instead To whatever end! Took down to wondrous depths Sullen we did go Where shapes of unwarped primal Gliding to and fro Father! Willst thou pity If dryre freshest cuts If eyelids crack, mummified Without trace of blood Lord, why would thou leave us so misled? How many warm hearts would cease to beat In the consequence of it?
thou, unwarped, dryre, willst, marquesas