Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/154

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And no flowers blow but capering crests of spray:

Confess thyself a god who can but slay." . ..

But from the deeps the deep Voice answer'd, Nay.

Half startled, still in reverie unaware,

He cried again as one who mocks despair;

And still the surges roll'd and rock'd him there;

"Then rumble in all thy depths, Leviathan,

And learn my scorn—thy master and a man.

So answer me if thou art more and can." . ..

There came a thrill, a spasm, as when the blow

Of earthquake runs before the crash, and lo

The dreadful Voice cried Silence from below.

He heard, he rose, he laugh'd as if in jest,

And drank red wine. (The red ray came to rest

Within the blood-red ruby on his breast):

"Art thou then there, down there, O damnèd dumb

Bold braggard, born to threaten yet succumb—

For ever overcoming e'er o'ercome?

What though thou roarest, still I will not bow

To thee, all-mighty, my God-gifted brow;

A mortal; yet, immortal, more than thou."

So said. Night fell. But from the deep below

A giant Hand emerged, enormous, slow:

And drew him down. And the Voice answer'd, So. Ronald Ross