On brawling tributaries. Like a bride
Greeting her lord it laved her with a kiss,
And left her purified.
"But the sea-Jinn, who dwell and dress in mauve,
And hunt blind monsters down the corridors
Between sunk vessels—fishers know the drove,
Their horns and conches and the quarry's roars
In autumn—hold that love
"Should meet with more than pardon. So the pack
Spliced up a wand of all the spillikin spars