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!

X

One never should think good impossible.
Eh? say I'd hide this Jew's oil's cruse--
His shop might hold bright gold, engrossible
By spy--spring's air takes there no care
To wave the heath-flower's glossy bell!

XI

But gold bells chime in time there, coined--
Gold! Old Sphinx winks there--"Read my screed!"
Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined
(Through new craft's stealth) with health and wealth--
At once all three purloined!

XII

I rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt,
(Miss this chance, glance untried aside?)
John's shirt, my--no! Ay, so--the lout!
Let yet the door gape, store on floor
And not a soul about?

XIII

Such men lay traps, perhaps--and I'm
Weak--meek--mild--child of woe, you know!
But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime.
Shrink? Th