THE SUBJECT

You say have no subject
And your brushes have all died;
But come to Marazio
At the ebbing of the tide,

And look you out to seaward,
Where My Lady battle-scarred
Hugs the rock that is more welcome
Than the shameful breaker's yard.

Paint her there upon the sunset
In her glory and despair
With the diadem of victory
Still in flower upon her hair.

Let her whisper as she settles
Of her blooding long ago
In the mists that mingle Jutland
With the might of Scapa Flow.