Death-lights on the scud and the baying of wind in the rigging, the hail on my cheek—
Tantara! Tantaro!
The wheel in my hand is shattered by a bolt from On High, chart and compass are lost in the coiling dun sea—
Tantara! Tantaro!
Scuttle me? Yea, scuttle me—I’ll bob up again, not in smooth waters but there where the storm is the wildest—
Tantara! Tantaro!
Didst Thou think to awe me, me the unhallowed, the daring, the storm-cleaver, the seeker in gutter and star?—
Tantara! Tantaro!
I am lashed to myself, to the iron mast of Necessity, and Thy scourgings I use for my rivets—
Tantara! Tantaro!
Ballast and cargo and anchor, all have been jettisoned into Thy seas—
Tantara! Tantaro!
On! On! my soul through the storm, through the wrath and the terror of death—
Tantara! Tantaro!