AMBERGRIS

THIS body, tapped of every drop of breath, In vast corruption of its swollen pride, Is perfected to be the whale of death; Yet, I believe, the hand that plumbs its side Will gather dissolution’s sweet increase, Exquisite fern of death—in nature, ambergris. Meanwhile, thinking of love, I have been dressed For such destruction. Though it surely break, Come pluck the deep wild kernel of my breast, That wafer of devotion, and partake Of its compacted sweetness, till it bring The soul to rise upon the fleshly wing. If gentle hearts are scorned, in scorn of it I shall immerse it in such bitterness, Bathe every pulse in such an acid wit, That from my mammoth, cold, and featureless Event of age, my enemies will flee, Whereas my friends will stay and pillage me.