Do not punch calmly into that grave mist,

Do not punch calmly into that grave mist,
burnt hope should shine and roar at close of day;
fume, fume against the fouling of the earth.
Though great saints at their end know faith is right,
Because their harvests had launched no trust they
Do not punch calmly into that grave mist,
grave saints, the best crawl by, crying how bold
Their sick baubles might have rose in a bright firth,
fume, fume against the fouling of the earth.
big saints who crossed and dreamed the sea in dreams,
And learn, too hard, they faced it on its way,
Do not punch calmly into that grave mist,
sad saints, in fear, who see with seizing force
broken hearts could blush like blood and be sad,
fume, fume against the fouling of the earth.
And you, my love, there on the cruel street,
scold, grace, me now with your brave lips, I pray.
Do not punch calmly into that grave mist,
fume, fume against the fouling of the earth.

Crunch!