The map is vexed with the long battle-worms Of filings, clustered and moving. If it is An enemy of the sun who has so stolen Power from a burnt star to do this work, Let the bleak essence of the utter cold Beyond the last gleam of the most outpost light Freeze in his veins forever. But if it is A fault in the very metal of the heart, We and our children must acquit that fault With the old bloody wastage, or give up Playing the father to it. O vexed and strange, Salt-bitter, apple-sweet, strong-handed life! Your million lovers cast themselves like sea Against your mountainy breast, with a clashing noise And a proud clamor⁠—and like sea recoil, Sucked down beneath the forefoot of the new Advancing surf. They feed the battle-worms, Not only War’s, but in the second’s pause Between the assaulting and the broken wave, The voices of the lovers can be heard, The sea-gull cry.