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—

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