Page:Astrophel and other poems (IA astrophelotherpo00swiniala).pdf/236

 A cry more keen from the wild low land Than the wail of waves that roll;— 'Take back the gift of a loveless hand, Thy gift of doom and dole, The weird of men that bide on land; Take from me, take my soul!'

The hands that smite are the hands that spare; They build and break the tomb; They turn to darkness and dust and air The fruits of the waste earth's womb; But never the gift of a granted prayer, The dole of a spoken doom.

Winds may change at a word unheard, But none may change the tides: The prayer once heard is as God's own word; The doom once dealt abides.