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THERE is no God, as I was taught in youth,
Though each, according to his stature, builds
Some covered shrine for what he thinks the truth
Which day by day his reddest heart-blood gilds.
There is no God; but death, the clasping sea,
In which we move like fish, deep over deep,
Made of men's souls that bodies have set free
Floods to a Justice though it seems asleep.
There is no God, but still, behind the veil
The hurt thing works, out of its agony.
Still like a touching of a brimming Grail
Return the pennies given to passers by.
There is no god, but we, who breathe the air,
Are god ourselves and touch god everywhere.
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