there is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gently rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of god. but while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your identity comes back in horror. over descartian vortices you hover. and perhaps, at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise for ever. heed it well, ye pantheists!