The sea would flow no longer,
It wearied after change,
It called its tides and breakers in,
From where they might range.

It send an icy message
To every wave and rill;
They lagged, the paused, they stiffened,
They froze, and were still.

It summoned in its currents,
They reached not where they led;
It bound its foaming whirlpools.
"Not the old life," it said,

"No fishes for the fisherman,
Not bold ships as before,
Not beating loud for ever
Upon the seashore,

"But cold white foxes stepping
On to my hard proud breast,
And a bird coming sweetly
And building a nest.

"My icebergs shall be mountains,
My silent fields of snow
Unmarked shall join the land's snowfields —
Where, no man shall know."