Three boys rowing in a little canoe,
Through the maddening storm.
In the dark of the early morn.
The lake stirred,
Waves crashed about
Tossing their little canoe round,
But on they rowed.
Forward their captain sang; the leader of the three.
In a voice barely audible, over the gale,
No more than a whisper, amid the gale,
A faint, flickering light filled with youthful fight.
Had he known Melville,
Had he the words.
A more formidable curse
Would have formed on the lips
Of the captain of that little canoe
And the leader of the three.
FROM HELLS HEART WE COME AT THEE!
Their course was a constant battle,
Overmatched in their little canoe,
But their will was indomitable
Such is youth; such is folly,
Such is the admirable courage
Of the crew of that little canoe
Jagged streaks of yellow-white flame
Criss-crossed over the sky
But on they rowed!
White knuckled fingers on the oars,
Youthful muscles taunt, straining against the waves.
Water, water, everywhere, water here, water there.
beneath them to.
Into the canoe it poured.
Towards a sliver of land,
A faint half-imagined berth of sand and rock and pine trees.
They saw it furtively across the water,
Solid and imposing against the storm.
Their ears ringing,
Their hopes clinging,
To a little canoe,
Storm tossed and forsaken
And a sliver of land, away out there.
On they rowed.
Into the storm tossed morning light,
Into a furious fight.
The stalwart little canoe bends and twists,
Moaning and groaning,
Filling with water too overflowing
Down! Deep down below.
Placid were the depths, serene and quiet.
No storm intruded, lives concluded but wait!
The storm abates, quietly rolling away,
Slipping onward, and onward still,
Leaving the lake passive under the light of day.
Up to the surface,
Up and away.
Their canoe, there waiting to carry them on,
On to the island that lay not so very far away.
And here their adventure is ending;
Companions the three and a little canoe
In terrible need of some mending.