Classic Poem

No not this old whalehall can whelm us,
shiptamed, gullgraced, soft to our glidings.
Harrows that mere more that squares our map.
See in its north where scribe has marked mermen ,
shore-sneakers who croon, to the seafarer's girl,
next year's gleewords. East and west nadders ,
flamefanged baletwisters; their breath dries up tears,
chars in the breast-hoard the dear face-charm.
Southward Cetegrande , that sly beast who sucks in
with whirlwind also the wanderer's pledges.
That sea is hight Time, it hems heart's landtrace.
Men say the redeless, reaching its bounds,
topple in maelstrom, tread back never.
Adread in that mere we drift toward map's end.