Sometimes words wrack me with their power-- I could fall down and drown in them.
This week I collided with Melville's poem "The Berg; A Dream" and have re-read it multiple times, giddy with it, while fearing its danger.
Above all, this ominous radiance:
"Along the spurs of ridges pale,
Not any slenderest shaft and frail,
A prism over glass-green gorges lone,
Toppled; or lace of traceries fine,
Nor pendant drops in grot or mine
Were jarred, when the stunned ship went down."