In this short, unsettling scene, someone is fleeing rising water that seems almost alive. The waves aren’t just chasing him; one leans in close and whispers an invitation. It offers a strange domestic comfort: a parlor made of smooth, shriven glass, a pantry with fish to suit any appetite. The phrase “revolting bliss” captures the queasy contradiction at the heart of that offer — something that should be lovely is also repulsive, because what the water really promises is a beautiful death. The mood is dreamlike and ominous, a lullaby laced with dread. Alongside the man floats a silent “object,” maybe a companion or a corpse, which gives no clear reply to the wave’s seduction. The speaker observes all this with an almost clinical detachment, leaving us suspended in an uncanny moment between flight and surrender, where drowning wears the mask of home.
The waters chased him as he fled, — Summary
The waters chased him as he fled, Not daring look behind -- A billow whispered in his Ear, "Come home with me, my friend -- My parlor is of shriven glass, My pantry has a fish For every palate in the Year" -- To this revolting bliss The object floating at his side Made no distinct reply.