A cry more keen from the wild low land
⁠Than the wail of waves that roll;—
'Take back the gift of a loveless hand,
⁠Thy gift of doom and dole,
The weird of men that bide on land;
⁠Take from me, take my soul!'

The hands that smite are the hands that spare;
⁠They build and break the tomb;
They turn to darkness and dust and air
⁠The fruits of the waste earth's womb;
But never the gift of a granted prayer,
⁠The dole of a spoken doom.

Winds may change at a word unheard,
⁠But none may change the tides:
The prayer once heard is as God's own word;
⁠The doom once dealt abides.