Seafarer

by William Carlos Williams, 1950

 The sea will wash in 
 but the rocks-jagged ribs 
 riding the cloth of foam 
 or a knob or pinnacles 

 with gannets- 

 are the stubborn man.
 He invites the storm, he 
 lives by it! instinct 
 with fears that are not fears 
 but prickles of ecstacy, 
 a secret liquor, a fire 
 that inflames his blood  
 to coldness so that the rocks 
 seem rather to leap 
 at the sea than the sea 
 to envelope them. They strain 
 forward to grasp ships 
 or even the sky itself that 
 bends down to be torn 
 upon them. To which he says, 
 It is I! I who am the rocks! 
 Without me nothing laughs.