Half RoundelI make no prayerFor the spoilt season, The weed of Eden.I make no prayer. Save us the green In the weed of time.Now is November;In night uneasyNothing I say.I make no prayer. Save us from the water That washes us away.What do I ponder?All smiled disguise, Lights in cold places, I make no prayer. Save us from air That wears us loosely.The leaf of summerTo cold has comeIn little time.I make no prayer. From earth deliver And the dark therein.Now is no whisperThrough all the living.I speak to nothing.I make no prayer. Save us from fire Consuming up and down.Evening with Lee Shore and CliffsSea-shimmer, faint haze, and far out a birdDipping for flies or fish. Then, when overThat wide silk suddenly the shadowSpread skating, who turned with a shiverHigh in the rocks? And knew, then only, the waves'Layering patience: how they would follow after, After, dogged as sleep, to his inlandDreams, oh beyond the one lamb that criedIn the olives, past the pines' derision. And heardBehind him not the sea's gaiety but its laughter.The FishermenWhen you think how big their feet are in black rubberAnd it slippery underfoot always, it is cleverHow they thread and manage among the sprawled nets, lines, Hooks, spidery cages with small entrances.But they are used to it. We do not know their names.They know our needs, and live by them, lending them wilesAnd beguilements we could never have fashioned for them;They carry the ends of our hungers out to drop themTo wait swaying in a dark place we could never have chosen.By motions we have never learned they feed us.We lay wreaths on the sea when it has drowned them.