response, no longer in word but in deed, of hurling for him, of hurling “earth for him off under his feet”. Now it is as if the poet is jumping up as he feels his Saviour reaching down to him in a mutual enthusiastic embrace. Now it is as if words have wholly failed him, however much he repeats “one thing and the same”. Now it is as if he is recalling what he tried to do in his previous Wreck of the Deutschland. “But how shall I… make me room there! Reach me a … Fancy, come faster! Strike you the sight of it? Look at it loom there! Thing that she… There, then! the Master!”
“The heart rears wings.” Everything in the poem, all the words the poet has heaped up like the waters of the Red Sea in the time of Moses, or the Jordan in the time of Joshua, now come to a climax in an ineffable, incommunicable, unutterable aposiopesis. For now his words, like the words of Cordelia in reply to her father, give place to silence. And now all he has to say is “Nothing!” And now, in Hamlet’s other words, “The rest is silence.”
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