He hated hot
What the sun did not.
With fertile face and animal grace
He cried among solider, sailors, passers-by
He howled:
The ocean has cried for no dead sailors
And I can take no more of an indifferent storm
That throws you out and begs you back again.
Enough! Enough! What pebbles these, that you call rocks
What sippings these that you call drinks,
Oh, what mice, what insects,
What puny insufferable foes. Enough!
I am alone. And stand just so.
Alone I'll stand, alone I'll go.
And watch no more, for that ever likely,
Ever vanishing shore.
Thought he who hated hot,
What the sun hated not.
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