I was strangely unmoved by the events.

Nantucket, that is the Nantucketers,

Cared little of the Pequod, or the souls,

But for the wives and mothers, whose loss was

Not mine; and Bildad and Peleg, whose loss 

Was their ship and stake—all insured, no doubt. 

At the Chapel, from the lofty pulpit,

A prayer was made, a collection plate sent 

Around, for the widow, for Ahab’s plaque.

But there was no longing for my recount, 

It was my tale, not theirs,—I grew weary 

Of telling it, of looking back, of care.

I roamed the docks, among the masts, seeking 

A ship, a berth, wondering all the while—

Had I enough of whales?, but felt the pull

Of sea and oars, I was a man adrift.

What sorrow I held for Quequeg I held

In hand, was portable, on dock or deck,

Was not uncomfortable. As for 

Starbuck, for Stubb, for the Captain himself,

They were distant to me, they were as stars, 

Constellations glimpsed through an evening fog. 

 `