This Ultimate Rule

There is a place called Ultima Thule

Where hordes and clans of vikings rule;

Where creatures snap and scratch about,

Where the air about is soft and cool.

It is where purple cabbage grows at night

And batwinged blizzards give such a fright;

And foxes talk in elken speak,

And the sky makes all but green in sight.

There is land in the jungle below,

Below the equator, you’ll surely know.

The leaves are brisk and the dirt ashine,

Made to mirror the lustful vines.

In this jungle land below,

There lies opportunity to go

About the trees, within their means;

Which, instead of fruits;

Excellence, valor,

Exceedance, they grow.

The sun is cold and moonlight’s warm,

And right through range the elephants in swarms.

In Ultima Thule, their eyes aglow,

Though the sun is cold; the moon is warm.

Hyenas cry and leopards laugh;

Down comes their brightly spotted giraffe.

Up, up, up, in Thule,

The sky and ground are cool.

Like here, they should be eating gruel,

But that is not how things are done,

Not under the cooling sun,

In grand Ultima Thule.

Everynight, there is feast of pheasant

And rump of thigh (how pleasant!)

Everyday there is jam of juniper,

And bread right from Jupiter.

Cheese comes down from the moon,

And good-graped wines sit in every room.

This is how Life is sipped,

Up, up, in Ultima Thule.

Down in the jungle aflower,

A fire is started every hour.

Vikings are none, but men, there are some,

Who use sharp things to show their power.

There is death, that’s true,

Up in old Ultima Thule,

But it is not the sickly kind,

Nor the kind that’s terribly cruel.

Down in the jungle below, there are knives

Sharp enough to pluck out eyes;

And cut up feet and heads and toes and knees.

Even Death fears these things,

So there it hides among many a disguise.

The Jungle below is not all bad,

But many of its people are brightly sad.

Vikings know of this small dismay,

But, they know, in their day,

What dismays they, too, have had.

To tantalize the fears

And give raise to these cheers,

Is to do to Ultima Thule

The wondrous honesty of its many years.

It is true, it is like the moon.

And the sun is always coming soon.

There snow and lambs and everything white

Are used to cover over the night.

And everyone eats with their silver spoon.

There sparkles and twitches time

Upon the sundials: their only sign.

But the days to them do not mean much,

For to the vikings there is always time.

The jungle is buried deep within

The leafy greens of wonder and sin.

But Ultima Thule stands atop the world,

Breathing, smiling, to its watcher’s chagrin.

There once or twice has been

A steamboat captain with steel as skin:

Ready to brace the world for Thule

All the way from the jungle within.

Once one shot an albatross,

To his crew’s devastating loss,

And when he wore it up to Thule,

Not one man made it across.

There are vikings up in Ultima Thule,

But they are all old, that is a rule.

Just as the creatures which snap about.

Age and beauty are the ultimate rule.

There are bamboo shoots and lotus flowers

Which all grow white, like stalks of flour—

and though most live in structures of snow,

—these are used to build the tallest tower.

It is a place called Ultima Thule,

Where gold fish play in a silver pool,

Where thornless roses bud anew.

Where purple ravens fly askew,

Where the sunset is done and its rise is true.

It is known to you and I, this place,

Though we have never seen its lovely face.

It was once a terrific race,

To reach Thule with a voracious pace.

And after the boats came the men in planes,

Who only sought to drop in pain.

Thule’s bandersnatch was crushed below

The fire that came down in lieu of snow.

Because,

In the jungle, the birds have plumes,

And the blue-bottle fly thrives on fumes

Of sporèd ferns and corpse-like plants,

While meat is eaten outright by ants.

The pink-eyed monkeys scream high and shrill,

While the soft and gentle will

Of hornèd rhinos meant to kill,

Drown out linen women who sit by their sill.

All these things made metal bend

And teeth crack to their bitter end.

So, the heat came up and up and up,

And heat it is to Thule they send.

The snow there is less white than before,

Less so than in the days of yore.

The ice, too, cracks aplenty

And the mountain tarn is no more.

Ultima Thule was this place,

And it had a wondrous silver face.

It once had golden fish and dazzling jams,

But now, it has buckled under metal’s mace.

The snow there has a redder glow,

While green pokes up from down below.

Where once they were lovely and neatly hidden,

All its creatures’ names now we know.

The vikings have since gone up to the moon,

And though we hope to see them soon,

Ultima Thule, for them, has no more wine,

And the cheese is better on the moon.

They have since gone up, so I've heard,

Rising off the snow like birds.

They are happier now, up on the moon,

And Earth’s morning rise is lovely, so I’ve heard.

There, on Thule, are houses now,

And the mystery had faded, with the snow.

The island, soon, will go under the sea,

And glitter and shine as it at once should be.

Its elephant and spotted giraffe

Will breed anew a splendid calf;

And they three

Shall be happy

Under the cool, silent sea.

But they have still not found the foamy groves,

Nor the buried treasure troves.

No; the pinkeyed pearls and windlike whorls

Still reside within the hidden coves.

Rather, the hoardish piles of legs and arms

Scramble up the fraying yarns

To reach this thing they call the sun,

And to feel its cooler, heated charms.

Up, up, they go to groom

The longer hairs up on the moon.

They stand and climb and grow to be tall,

And the tallest tower will not be so soon.

It once was called Ultima Thule

And now it is a newer Thule,

Since the jungle has come from down below;

Below the equator, I think you know.

But it is no longer called ‘Thule,’

We must no longer call it ‘Thule.’

The people there are now young, instead,

And no longer exists the Ultimate Rule.

And there, in the spot down within the sea,

Are the beautiful things that come to me:

In tales of mythic jewels or ropes within

Ochre holes in the upholstery.

In the days when Thule was new

It was truly quite the view.

And though we hope to see them soon,

The Vikings now live upon the moon.

Thule still exists today.

To this you might respond ‘Hooray!’

But it has been discovered now,

Rammed against by a boat’s long prow,

As shuffling feet come down the gangway.

And the Earth, so very hollow,

Shall be forever hallow,

And the strings of its folkloric isles: the strings that follow,

Shall stretch up in the lights of the sky, and neatly narrow.