Have in a breath blasphemed and laughed and wept.
Yet all moods pass. The sea is just the same,
And I am grown old looking on its face.
I know that every wave that laps the strand
Is like to every other wave that comes,
As many follow this one, as the last.
I say my prayers to him, because I know
Somehow that wheresoever he may be
He is awake and hears me. It is sweet
To call around his head the flames of hell,—