Blame the cleft then?  Praise rather!  So—­just a chance gone! 
  Had you said—­“Save the seed and secure souls in flower”—­
Ah, how time laughs, years palpitate, pro grapples con,
  Till one day you shrug shoulders—­“Well, gone, the good hour!”
Till one night—­“Is God off now? or on?”

IV

UP THE SPOUT

I

Hi!  Just you drop that!  Stop, I say! 
  Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend’s wrist? 
Where that spined sand’s lined band’s the bay—­
  Lined blind with true sea’s blue, as due—­
Promising—­not to pay?

II

For the sea’s debt leaves wet the sand;
  Burst worst fate’s weights in one burst gun? 
A man’s own yacht, blown—­What? off land? 
  Tack back, or veer round here, then—­queer! 
Reef points, though—­understand?

III

I’m blest if I do.  Sigh? be blowed! 
  Love’s doves make break life’s ropes, eh?  Tropes! 
Faith’s brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road;
  Hope’s gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged—­
Clogged, water-logged, her load!

IV

Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away! 
  No show now how best plough sea’s brow,
Wrinkling—­breeze quick, tease thick, ere day,
  Clear sheer wave’s sheen of green, I mean,
With twinkling wrinkles—­eh?

V

Sea sprinkles winkles, tinkles light
  Shells’ bells—­boy’s joys that hap to snap! 
It’s just sea’s fun, breeze done, to spite
  God’s rods that scourge her surge, I’d urge—­
Not proper, is it—­quite?

VI

See, fore and aft, life’s craft undone! 
  Crank plank, split spritsail—­mark, sea’s lark! 
That grey cold sea’s old sprees, begun
  When men lay dark i’ the ark, no spark,
All water—­just God’s fun!

VII

Not bright, at best, his jest to these
  Seemed—­screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin! 
When for mirth’s yell earth’s knell seemed please
  Some dumb new grim great whim in him
Made Jews take chalk for cheese.

VIII

Could God’s rods bruise God’s Jews?  Their jowls
  Bobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped the plaice in face: 
None heard, ’tis odds, his—­God’s—­folk’s howls. 
  Now, how must I apply, to try
This hookiest-beaked of owls?

IX

Well, I suppose God knows—­I don’t. 
  Time’s crimes mark dark men’s types, in stripes
Broad as fen’s lands men’s hands were wont
  Leave grieve unploughed, though proud and loud
With birds’ words—­No! he won’t!