I
MASEFIELD (HIMSELF)

GOD said, and frowned, as He looked on
Shropshire clay:
"Alone, ’twont do; composite, would I make
This man-child rare; ’twere well, methinks, to take
A handful from the Stratford tomb, and weigh
A few of Shelley’s ashes; Bunyan may
Contribute, too, and, for my sweet Son’s sake,
I’ll visit Avalon; then, let me slake
The whole with Wyclif-water from the Bay.

A sailor, he! Too godly, though, I fear;
Offset it with tobacco! Next, I’ll find
Hedge-roses, star-dust, and a vagrant’s mind;
His mother’s heart now let me breathe upon;
When west winds blow, I’ll whisper in her ear:
"Apocalypse awaits him; call him John!"