_The First Chantey_ by Rudyard Kipling
Mine was a woman to me, Darkling, I found her.
Hailing her dumb from the camp, Held her and bound her.
Hot rose her tripe on our track, Ere I had proved her.
Hearing her laugh in the gloom, Greatly I loved her.
Swift through the forest we ran, None stood to guard us.
Few were my people and far, And then the flood barred us.
Him we called son of the sea, Sullen and swollen.
Panted we waited the death, Stealer and stolen.
Yet ere they came to my lance, Laid for the slaughter,
Lightly she leaped to a log, Lapped in the water.
Holding on high and apart skins that arrayed her,
Called she the god of the wind, That he should aid her.
Life had the tree at that word, Praise we the giver.
Otter-like left he the bank, For the full river.
Far fell the axes behind, Flashing and ringing.
Wonder was on me and fear, And yet she was singing.
Lonely the land we had left, And now the blue bound us.
Even the floor of the gods, Level around us.
Whisper there was not Nor word shadow nor showing.
Still the light stirred on the deep, Glowing and growing.
Then did he leap to his place, Flaring from under.
He, the compeller of the sun, Bared to our wonder.
Nay, not a leak from our eyes, Blinded with gazing.
Cleared he the womb of the world, Huge and amazing.
This we beheld and we live, The pit of the burning.
Then the god spoke to the tree For our returning.
Back to the beach of our flight, Fearless and slowly.
Back to our slayers he went, But we were holy.
Men that were hot in that hunt, And women that followed.
Babes that were promised our bones, Trembled and wallowed.
Over the necks of the tribe, Crouching and fawning,
Prophet and priestess, We came back from the dawning.