I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,  And did He stoop to quibble could tell why  The little buried mole continues blind,  

In moonlight lies            the river passing—  it's not quiet 

Blue in green: baywater seen through grasses  that quiver over it, stirring the air,  slanted against the water's one-em dashes.

My Portuguese-bred aunt  picked up a clay shivalingam one day and said:

have crossed an ocean  I have lost my tongue