her horns.

Seven wide miles the serene sea smiles between them stretching from
rim to rim:
Soft they shine, but a darker sign should bid not hope or belief
wax dim:
God's are these men, and not the sea's: their trust is set not on
her but him.

God's? but who is the God whereto the prayers and incense of these
men rise?
What is he, that the wind and sea should fear him, quelled by his
sunbright eyes?
What, that men should return again, and hail him Lord of the
servile skies?

Hell's own flame at his heavenly name leaps higher and laughs, and
its gulfs rejoice:
Plague and death from his baneful breath take life and lighten, and
praise his choice:
Chosen are they to devour for prey the tribes that hear not and
fear his voice.

Ay, but we that the wind and sea gird round with shelter of storms
and waves
Know not him that ye worship, grim as dreams that quicken from dead
men's graves:
God is one with the sea, the sun, the land that nursed us, the love
that saves.