hand in Queequeg's pagan art round me,
I tried to move —unlock his bridegroom clasp—
yet, sleeping as he was, he still hugged me ,
his only answer was a snore; a scratch.

aside the counterpane, a tomahawk ,
a hatchet- baby pretty , truly; bed
here in a strange broad day, a tomahawk
a wriggling hug, a grunt like Newfoundland

stiff as a pike-staff, looking at me I came
though a dim consciousness over him. I bent
upon observing so at last his mind
he reconciled to jump the apartment

a civilized overture; delicacy,
he treated me with much civility