Tide up, twisted... eyes like coal still glowing in the ashes of ruin... Ahab lifts up to the clearness of the morn... his splintered helmet of a brow.

This glad, this happy air, this winsome sky, at last seems almost to dissolve that cankerous beating in his heart. The cruel step-mother world... now throws affectionate arms around that... stubborn neck. Old Ahab drops a tear into the Sea. Not as the vast Pacific hold such wealth... as that one drop.

From Moby-d___ (1981), Chapter 132: The Symphony

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