XXV

Or suppose now that rock's cleft--grim, scored to the quick,
As a man's face kept fighting all life through gets scored,
Mossed and marked with grey purulent leprosies, sick,
Flat and foul as man's life here (be swift with your sword--
Cut the soul out, stuck fast where thorns prick!)


XXVI

--Say it let the rock's heart out, its meaning, the thing
All was made for, devised, ruled out gradually, planned--
Ah, that sea-shell, perhaps--since it lies, such a ring
Of pure colour, a cup full of sunbeams, to stand
(Say, in Lent) at the priest's hand--(no king!)


XXVII

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?"