Of her master's hands on the controls--
A pull of a switch, a turn of a wheel,
The submarine, like the deep-sea shark,
Went under cover, away from the light
And limn of the sunset, from the sight
Of the stars, to a native lair as dark
As a kraken's grave. She took her course
South-west by south--for what was the source
Of that hum to the port picked up by the oscillator?
A rhythm too rapid, too hectic for freighter
Or liner! This was her foe, not her prey:
Faster and louder, and heading her way!
Beyond the depth where the tanks could flood 'er,
She drove her nose down with the diving rudder,
Far from the storm of shells or thrust
Of the ram, away from the gear-wrenching zone
Of the depth-bomb, away from the scent and lust
Of a killer whose might was as great as her own.
THE winds of God were blowing over France,
Kindling the hearths and altars, changing vows
Of rote into an alphabet of flame.
The air was charged with song beyond the range
Of larks, with wings beyond the stretch of eagles.
Skylines unknown to maps broke from the mists
And there was laughter on the seas. With sound
Of bugles from the Roman catacombs,
The saints came back in their incarnate forms.
Across the Alps St. Francis of Assisi In his brown tunic girt with hempen cord,
Revisited the plague-infected towns.
The monks were summoned from their monasteries,
Nuns from their convents; apostolic hands