until from confinement upwards I thrust,
even as He commands who laid at the beginning
my fetters upon me. I can never be free
from the power that points the path I follow.
(K-D 3, 17–35)
Sometimes from above I rouse the surges,
stir up the waters and drive to the shore
the flint-gray flood. Foaming the waves
fight with the wall. Dim stands up
the dune over the deep; dark behind it
blended with the sea comes another surge.
Together they meet by the sea-mark there
by the high ridges. Loud is the wooden ship,
the noise of the sailors. Calmly await
the steep stone cliffs the battle of waters,
the clashing waves, when high the violence
crowds on the headlands. There must the keel
find bitter battle, if the sea lifts it
with all its men in that terrible hour;
till out of control, robbed of its life,
it rides through the foam on the back of the waves.
Then will be panic there, manifest to mortals;
. . . . . but I must obey,
strong on my fierce way. Who will still that?
In this last there may be an echo of Matt. 8:24–27 (Christ calming the waves), and in the shipwreck picture a notion of divine retribution at the Last Judgment.
(K-D 3, 36–66)
that ride on my back, scatter them wide
with their streaming water. Sometimes I allow them
to glide together. Great is the din,
