The yellow flood sucked round him, pulling him down, The yellow foam had a taste like death in his mouth, “We ought to of had a good meal,” he thought with a weak Wonder, as he fought weakly. “A good hot meal. Dis current, she’s too strong for a hungry mouth. We’se done our best, but she fights like a angel would Like wrestlin’ with a death-angel.” He choked and sank To come up gasping and staring with bloodshot eyes. His brain had a last, clear flash. “You’re drowned,” said the brain. Then it stopped working. But the black, thrashing hands Caught hold of something solid and hard and rough And hung to it with a last exhausted grip. —He had been fighting an angel for seven nights And now he hung by his hands to the angel’s neck, Lost in an iron darkness of beating wings, If he once let go, the angel would push him off And touch him across the loins with a stony hand In the last death-trick of the wrestle. He moaned a little.