Analysis of The Wreck Of The Deutschland

[[A-text]]
to the happy memory of five Francisan nuns, exiles by the Falck Laws,
drowned between midnight |&| morning of December 7 [[1875]].

PART THE FIRST

Thou mastering me
   God! giver of breath and bread;
 World's strand, sway of the sea;
   Lord of living |&| dead;
     Thou hast bound bones |&| veins in me, fastened me flesh,
   And after it {'a}lmost {'u}nmade, what with dread,
   Thy doing: |&| dost thou touch me afresh?
 Over again I feel thy finger |&| find the{'e}.

I did say yes
   O at lightning |&| lashed rod;
 Thou heardst me truer than tongue confess
   Thy terror, O Christ, O God;
     Thou knowest the walls, altar |&| hour |&| night:
   The swoon of a heart that the sweep |&| the hurl of thee trod
     Hard down with a horror of height:
 And the midriff astrain with leaning of, laced with fire of stress.

The frown of his face
   Before me, the hurtle of hell
 Behind, where, where was a, where was a place?
   I whirled out wings that spell
     And fled with a fling of the heart to the heart of the Host.
   My heart, but you were dovewinged, I can tell,
     Carrier-witted, I am bold to boast,
 To flash from the flame to the flame then, tower from the grace to the
grace

I am soft sift
   In an hourglass -- at the wall
 Fast, but mined with a motion, a drift,
   And it crowds |&| it combs to the fall;
     I steady as a water in a well, to a poise, to a pane,
   But roped with, always, all the way down from the tall
     Fells or flanks of the voel, a vein
 Of the gospel proffer, a pressure, a principle, Christ's gift.

I kiss my hand
   To the stars, lovely-asunder
 Starlight, wafting him out of it; and
   Glow, glory in thunder;
     Kiss my hand to the dappled-with-damson west:
   Since, tho' he is under the world's splendour |&| wonder,
     His mystery must be instressed, stressed;
 For I greet him the days I meet him, |&| bless when I understand.

Not out of his bliss
   Springs the stress felt
 Nor first from heaven (and few know this)
   Swings the stroke dealt --
     Stroke |&| a stress that stars |&| storms deliver,
   That guilt is hushed by, hearts are flushed by |&| melt --
     But it rides time like riding a river
 (And here the faithful waver, the faithless fable |&| miss).

It dates from day
   Of his going in Galilee;
 Warm-laid grave of a womb-life grey;
   Manger, maiden's knee;
     The dense |&| the driven Passion, |&| frightful sweat:
   Thence the discharge of it, there its swelling to be,
     Tho' felt before, though in high flood yet --
 What none would have known of it, only the heart, being hard at bay,

Is out with it! Oh,
   We lash with the best or worst
     Word last! How a lush-kept plush-capped sloe
   Will, mouthed to flesh-burst,
 Gush! -- flush the man, the being with it, sour or sweet,
   Brim, in a flash, full! -- Hither then, last or first,
 To hero of Calvary, Christ,'s feet --
     Never ask if meaning it, wanting it, warned of it -- men go.

Be adored among men,
   God, three-number{'e}d form;
 Wring thy rebel, dogged in den,
   Man's malice, with wrecking |&| storm.
     Beyond saying sweet, past telling of tongue,
   Thou art lightning |&| love, I found it, a winter |&| warm;
     Father |&| fondler of heart thou hast wrung:
 Hast thy dark descending |&| most art merciful then.

With an anvil-ding
   And with fire in him forge thy will
 Or rather, rather then, stealing as Spring
   Through him, melt him but master him still:
     Whether {'a}t {'o}nce, as once at a crash Paul,
   Or as Austin, a lingering-out sweet skill,
     Make mercy in all of us, out of us all
 Mastery, but be adored, but be adored king.

Part the second

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 "Some find me a sword; some
   The flange |&| the rail; flame,
 Fang, or flood" goes Death on drum,
   And storms bugle his fame.
     But w{'e} dr{'e}am we are rooted in earth -- Dust!
   Flesh falls within sight of us, we, though our flower the same,
     Wave with the meadow, forget that there must
 The sour scythe cringe, |&| the blear share come.

On Saturday sailed from Bremen,
   American-outward-bound,
 Take settler |&| seamen, tell men with women,
   Two hundred souls in the round --
     O Father, not under th