<DIV><P><B>Half Roundel</B></P><p>I make no prayer<BR> For the spoilt season,<BR> The weed of Eden.<BR> I make no prayer.<BR> Save us the green<BR> In the weed of time.</P><p>Now is November;<BR> In night uneasy<BR> Nothing I say.<BR> I make no prayer.<BR> Save us from the water<BR> That washes us away.</P><p>What do I ponder?<BR> All smiled disguise,<BR> Lights in cold places,<BR> I make no prayer.<BR> Save us from air<BR> That wears us loosely.</P><p>The leaf of summer<BR> To cold has come<BR> In little time.<BR> I make no prayer.<BR> From earth deliver<BR> And the dark therein.</P><p>Now is no whisper<BR> Through all the living.<BR> I speak to nothing.<BR> I make no prayer.<BR> Save us from fire<BR> Consuming up and down.</P><p><B>Evening with Lee Shore and Cliffs</B></P><p>Sea-shimmer, faint haze, and far out a bird<BR> Dipping for flies or fish. Then, when over<BR> That wide silk suddenly the shadow<BR> Spread skating, who turned with a shiver<BR> High in the rocks? And knew, then only, the waves'<BR> Layering patience: how they would follow after,<BR> After, dogged as sleep, to his inland<BR> Dreams, oh beyond the one lamb that cried<BR> In the olives, past the pines' derision. And heard<BR> Behind him not the sea's gaiety but its laughter.</P><p><B>The Fishermen</B></P><p>When you think how big their feet are in black rubber<BR> And it slippery underfoot always, it is clever<BR> How they thread and manage among the sprawled nets, lines,<BR> Hooks, spidery cages with small entrances.<BR> But they are used to it. We do not know their names.<BR> They know our needs, and live by them, lending them wiles<BR> And beguilements we could never have fashioned for them;<BR> They carry the ends of our hungers out to drop them<BR> To wait swaying in a dark place we could never have chosen.<BR> By motions we have never learned they feed us.<BR> We lay wreaths on the sea when it has drowned them.</P></DIV>