Classic Poem

Clad in thick mail he stumbles down the floor
Of the dark primæval ocean;—on his head
A casque more gross than ever helmeted
Crusader against Saracen. Before
His glass-dimmed eyes dart shapes like fiends of yore,
Or like malignant spirits of the dead,
To snatch and snap the line where through is fed
A meagre air to that strange visitor,
Stumbling we grope and stifle here below
In the gross garb of this too cumbering flesh,
And draw such hard-won breaths as may be drawn,
Until, perchance with pearls, we rise and go
To doff our diver's mail and taste the fresh,
The generous winds of the eternal dawn.