A larger Argo ploughs our clearer blue!
Your Zephyr won no such auroral bride
As her I woo! The South is whence the tide
Springs downhill to refresh the North and you!
To melt your adamantine basements too,
When, as your sagas sang, the flaming-eyed
Children of Southern Muspel scatter wide
Your world, your gods, when Ragnarok is due!

Antipodean? Whew! We are the head,
The oceanic head, while you, slung low
With lands that scrape the floor of heaven, gaze,
Par o'er the Bull your odd Europa wed,
Up to the Chambers of the South where glow
Our pennant stars, our wider Milky Ways!