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.