353

How low and in the waves

Our outcry sank, I give

To you to reckon, my

Cold brother. What means we

To a protest is blunt

And cannot but injure.

For all surveillance

Dances at our call, now,

Here, in the heart of things.

The high lords of the day

Sound out their reasons and

Make benifice of fraudery.

Stop up us our ears then,

The tune is wearisome.

No drearier shout than

The groan of the allpower

As it sloughs its skin. Hark!

Bring us our darkness in.