The House

Far on the outer beach the strange hulk stands,
A belly-laugh at architectural grace—
It reaches, juts and sprawls, grabs chunks of space,
It rises like a chorus of demands.

It’s pieced of driftwood, every beam and board;
The second floor looms larger than the first;
Its upward thrust seems doomed to be reversed
By all the laws of physics and discord.

Yet up it stays, like a fool’s philosophy.
Created of scraps the storm-tide put at hand
It now shouts rude defiance to the sea
While struggling to keep its feet on shifting sand.
That there’s some power that keeps it none can doubt,
Some logic moving like love—from inside out.

Paul Smyth 

Titanic, Philippe