It sings it a song wrought out of the moan of the beach,
Of the sough of the wind, of the tales of the waste and the wild,
Older and stranger than speech.
VII
A REPROACH
The weltering anguish of a tortured land,
A sky of lead, cumbered with mountainous clouds,
Through which a moon steers, smiling as she goes,
And—stretching to the void of distance—Thou
Oldest of murderers! What ghastly croon,
What dismal tale of past iniquities,