Then the Mate drank the remnants, six men's share, And ramped into his cabin, where he stripped And danced unclad, and was uproarious there. In waltzes with the cabin cat he tripped, Singing in tenor clear that he was pipped-- That "he who strove the tempest to disarm, Must never first embrail the lee yard-arm," And that his name was Ginger. Dauber crept Back to the round-house, gripping by the rail. The wind howled by; the passionate water leapt; The night was all one roaring with the gale. Then at the door he stopped, uttering a wail; His hands were perished numb and blue as veins, He could not turn the knob for both the Spains. A hand came shuffling aft, dodging the seas, Singing "her nut-brown hair" between his teeth; Taking the ocean's tumult at his ease Even when the wash about his thighs did seethe. His soul was happy in its happy sheath; "What, Dauber, won't it open? Fingers cold? You'll talk of this time, Dauber, when you're old." He flung the door half open, and a sea Washed them both in, over the splashboard, down "You silly, salt miscarriage!" sputtered he. "Dauber, pull out the plug before we drown! That's spoiled my laces and my velvet gown. Where is the plug?" Groping in pitch dark water, He sang between his teeth "The Farmer's Daughter." It was pitch dark within there; at each roll The chests slid to the slant; the water rushed, Making full many a clanging tin pan bowl Into the black below-bunks as it gushed. The dog-tired men slept through it; they were hushed. The water drained, and then with matches damp The man struck heads off till he lit the lamp. "Thank you," the Dauber said; the seaman grinned. "This is your first foul weather?" "Yes." "I thought Up on the yard you hadn't seen much wind. Them's rotten sea-boots, Dauber, that you brought. Now I must cut on deck before I'm caught." He went; the lamp-flame smoked; he slammed the door; A film of water loitered across the floor. The Dauber watched it come and watched it go; He had had revelation of the lies Cloaking the truth men never choose to know; He could bear witness now and cleanse their eyes. He had beheld in suffering; he was wise; This was the sea, this searcher of the soul-- This never-dying shriek fresh from the Pole. He shook with cold; his hands could not undo His oilskin buttons, so he shook and sat, Watching his dirty fingers, dirty blue. Hearing without the hammering tackle slat, Within, the drops from dripping clothes went pat, Running in little patters, gentle, sweet, And "Ai, ai!" went the wind, and the seas beat.