The river loiters by her with its muck,
And takes her image as a benison.
* * * * *
How shall a man describe this resting ship,
Her heavenly power of lying down at grace,
This quiet bird by whom the bubbles slip,
This iron home where prisoned seamen pace?
Three slenderest pinnacles, three sloping spires,
Climbing the sky, supported but by strings
Which whine in the sea wind from all their wires,