Scandinavia

Ho!

The shrieking spiral of the maelstrom whorls into the deep

guts of the cold sea!

Ho!

The fierce gulls, blind with brittle rain, whip terrified

wings against the great glassy walls of the ice-

mountains!

Ho!

The wind screams like a young god in torment: like a

young god whose flesh is being eaten by hot irons,

the wind howls and whines and whimpers!

Ho!

The fire-daggers of heaven slit the black sky and plunge

into the fat bowels of ships!- See! Where hot

blood spurts from the entrails of ships, fountaining

mast-high over gleaming crackling skeletons!

Ho!

The anger of heaven roars rumbling fury down on a savage

sea; an ocean of thunder sweeps limb to limb with

an ocean of water; billows of sound lock with billows

of spray in wild mad war!

Ho!

But that language! I know it well, that one!

That tongue have I been taught early; that speech have I

learned well.

What roars the anger of heaven:

"There is a hearth, there is a hearth, glowing . . ."

What write the fire-daggers in the black sky:

"Four walls are leather-hung, are leather-hung . . ."

What screams the mad wind:

"One woman makes one bed, one bed, one bed . . ."

What shriek the fierce gulls:

"One woman sings one song, one song, one song . . ."

What whorls the swift maelstrom:

"One lamp isst one window, at one window . . ."

Ho!

I know that language!