MUD, thick and black, heaves all around and hems
One little solid spot; and germs infest
Its slimy depths, with putrid matter dressed,
Pierced through by rotting plants and broken stems.
Greedy for filth to sully nature’s gems.
What foreign state to all we hold as best;
And yet from such as this we could invest
The universe with jewelled diadems.
Think of that man, a drunken brutal sot,
Thrown in the dust and knowing but neglect;
By countless hosts unpitied and forgot,
Spat at and spurned by those we call select;
And yet from such, though evil be his lot,
May be redeemed a soul that is elect!

18. 2. 1928

Fifty-sixth Sonnet