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Ten below, high of zero, 4:11pm flashed the alarm panel’s handsome blue touchscreen. Without commotion or fire the afternoon passed slowly, full of promise, then disappointment. Without heartbreak or break-in. For company I had Kafka on my lap and Qolsys vibrating lightly against the wall. 4:34...4:35... There are all sorts of creatures in the world, I read, wretched, limited, dumb creatures who have no language but mechanical cries

april is a dog's dream the soft grass is growing the sweet breeze is blowing the air all full of singing feels just right so no excuses now we're going to the park to chase and charge and chew and I will make you see what spring is all about

found pins by the millions while meticulously stripping a portion of Manhattan worked over by women who mended between appointments: the harlot’s artifacts include extracts of old wax paper wrappers filled with pin after pin, — imagine all sixteenths spilled from the inch ruler; imagine each a singular spoke of tin, each one fell stroke in a ledger; less than a cent of metal total, a dowry. Her nicks of time, dropped stitches, poke-throughs taken in, how each man may have fit against the satin hem of her memory.

you lie on your back arms close to your sides the body as a card run through the slit of the EFTPOS machine and stopped rubbed off on a coin or two a set of eyes lingering underneath when you move them you can feel the iris brush against the profile of Queen Elizabeth or a native bird it costs actual material money to change these symbols it costs actual material money to make actual material money valid and invalid what does a banker fall asleep thinking about? hand wrapped around notes stuffed between the mattress and the bed frame you’re lying next to that body and feel bad for thinking about ways to kill yourself and/or him who voted for this system of profit no one voted on the voting system you think about dragging his sleeping body to the balcony he sleeps like the dead so fat chance of him waking throw him from the second floor but you second-guess yourself not because you don’t think you could do it you’re not sure the drop would do it you take the gold from your lids place it on the bedside table

In our house we live with Arlene. My little sister has a plan. She has what they call a beginner’s mind. She sees everything from an un-given-up perspective. I’m frightened; I know Arlene better than anyone; she knows me better. Esme says if I’m scared we can’t win. But I am scared. Arlene drags me over to the window where the black mould has made a map of Australia. Australia gives me trouble breathing, it’s so far away. Arlene points it out and I get the feeling in my chest, my whole life in there twisted up like a snake. It could bite me or her. She puts a hand on my breastbone. You’re not strong. I want to tell her we can look after ourselves. I want to tell her I’m in charge now, but I can still see the dark blur at the edges. I don’t sleep anymore, my head is full of this insomniac light. I lie awake watching over my sisters and I listen to them breathe. Esme whispers that I should wake her if I need to. I say I will, but I never do. Even when I sleep I dream I can’t sleep and I’m standing there looking down at them, the night pouring from my hands. Esme has a future in mind. She’s always laughing. She gets up early and makes buttermilk pancakes using normal milk soured with lemon juice. She tries things out. Arlene tells us to stay away from sharp things or we’ll cut ourselves. Esme does what she likes. She grates apple for a new recipe and cuts her knuckle and laughs. I don’t know if I can live my life. I don’t know if I can look after someone as unafraid as Esme. I don’t know how to change what I do, the way someone eating soup will, out of habit, bite down. Esme laughs; she’s serving up apple pancakes with banana and maple syrup and she says,You are a whole person. A row of mornings fan out. And the pancakes are sweet and slightly gummy with a salt edge.

The canyon walls close in again, slant light a silver glare in brown water. The water is only knee deep, but when the boy reaches the boulders— purple dark, silvered by the smash of brute water— water will tear at his chest and arms. The walls of the canyon are brilliant in late light. They would have glared red and gold for his drowned camera: splashed blood to his left, to his right a wall of sun laddered with boulders. More than boulders.    Some stranger once fought down this cliffside, his rope of twisted dry vines strung boulder to boulder, clifftop to arroyo.    Escape.    Escape maybe.    Maybe bones in the desert. I think of hands scuffed raw from the braiding. Almost….  Water froths over the boulders, tugs at the boy’s footing.       Almost…. The blood cliff to his left blinds him.    Blind nails scrape at two boulders, a torn vine whipping somewhere above him. He wedges knees against polished rock, pressing up, clawing slick stone. Now.    Rope cutting his hand, he skids underwater: silver and froth, a film of bright blood staining his eyes. But he drags hand over hand up out of the water, climbing the sun hand over hand, the ancient vines holding, boulders for foothold, up out of that canyon.

I have always aspired to a more spacious form that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose and would let us understand each other without exposing the author or reader to sublime agonies. In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent: a thing is brought forth which we didn’t know we had in us, so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out and stood in the light, lashing his tail. That’s why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion, though it’s an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel. It’s hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from, when so often they’re put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty. What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons, who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues, and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand, work at changing his destiny for their convenience? It’s true that what is morbid is highly valued today, and so you may think that I am only joking or that I’ve devised just one more means of praising Art with the help of irony. There was a time when only wise books were read, helping us to bear our pain and misery. This, after all, is not quite the same as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics. And yet the world is different from what it seems to be and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings. People therefore preserve silent integrity, thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors. The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will. What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry, as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly, under unbearable duress and only with the hope that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument. Berkeley, 1968

I I weep for Adonais—he is dead! Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, And teach them thine own sorrow, say: "With me Died Adonais; till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!" II Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, When thy Son lay, pierc'd by the shaft which flies In darkness? where was lorn Urania When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamour'd breath, Rekindled all the fading melodies, With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, He had adorn'd and hid the coming bulk of Death. III Oh, weep for Adonais—he is dead! Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; For he is gone, where all things wise and fair Descend—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. IV Most musical of mourners, weep again! Lament anew, Urania! He died, Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, Blind, old and lonely, when his country's pride, The priest, the slave and the liberticide, Trampled and mock'd with many a loathed rite Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light. V Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Not all to that bright station dar'd to climb; And happier they their happiness who knew, Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time In which suns perish'd; others more sublime, Struck by the envious wrath of man or god, Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime; And some yet live, treading the thorny road, Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. VI But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perish'd, The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherish'd, And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew; Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, The bloom, whose petals nipp'd before they blew Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast. VII To that high Capital, where kingly Death Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, A grave among the eternal.—Come away! Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; Awake him not! surely he takes his fill Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. VIII He will awake no more, oh, never more! Within the twilight chamber spreads apace The shadow of white Death, and at the door Invisible Corruption waits to trace His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place; The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface So fair a prey, till darkness and the law Of change shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. IX Oh, weep for Adonais! The quick Dreams, The passion-winged Ministers of thought, Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught The love which was its music, wander not— Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain, But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain, They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again. X And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head, And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries, "Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead; See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies A tear some Dream has loosen'd from his brain." Lost Angel of a ruin'd Paradise! She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. XI One from a lucid urn of starry dew Wash'd his light limbs as if embalming them; Another clipp'd her profuse locks, and threw The wreath upon him, like an anadem, Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem; Another in her wilful grief would break Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem A greater loss with one which was more weak; And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek. XII Another Splendour on his mouth alit, That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, And pass into the panting heart beneath With lightning and with music: the damp death Quench'd its caress upon his icy lips; And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips, It flush'd through his pale limbs, and pass'd to its eclipse. XIII And others came . . . Desires and Adorations, Winged Persuasions and veil'd Destinies, Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies; And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, Came in slow pomp; the moving pomp might seem Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. XIV All he had lov'd, and moulded into thought, From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound, Lamented Adonais. Morning sought Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground, Dimm'd the aëreal eyes that kindle day; Afar the melancholy thunder moan'd, Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. XV Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief with his remember'd lay, And will no more reply to winds or fountains, Or amorous birds perch'd on the young green spray, Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day; Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear Than those for whose disdain she pin'd away Into a shadow of all sounds: a drear Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear. XVI Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown, For whom should she have wak'd the sullen year? To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere Amid the faint companions of their youth, With dew all turn'd to tears; odour, to sighing ruth. XVII Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain; Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain, Soaring and screaming round her empty nest, As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain Light on his head who pierc'd thy innocent breast, And scar'd the angel soul that was its earthly guest! XVIII Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone, But grief returns with the revolving year; The airs and streams renew their joyous tone; The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear; Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons' bier; The amorous birds now pair in every brake, And build their mossy homes in field and brere; And the green lizard, and the golden snake, Like unimprison'd flames, out of their trance awake. XIX Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst As it has ever done, with change and motion, From the great morning of the world when first God dawn'd on Chaos; in its stream immers'd, The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light; All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst; Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight, The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. XX The leprous corpse, touch'd by this spirit tender, Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath; Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour Is chang'd to fragrance, they illumine death And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath; Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows Be as a sword consum'd before the sheath By sightless lightning?—the intense atom glows A moment, then is quench'd in a most cold repose. XXI Alas! that all we lov'd of him should be, But for our grief, as if it had not been, And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene The actors or spectators? Great and mean Meet mass'd in death, who lends what life must borrow. As long as skies are blue, and fields are green, Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. XXII He will awake no more, oh, never more! "Wake thou," cried Misery, "childless Mother, rise Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core, A wound more fierce than his, with tears and sighs." And all the Dreams that watch'd Urania's eyes, And all the Echoes whom their sister's song Had held in holy silence, cried: "Arise!" Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung, From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung. XXIII She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs Out of the East, and follows wild and drear The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear So struck, so rous'd, so rapt Urania; So sadden'd round her like an atmosphere Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. XXIV Out of her secret Paradise she sped, Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel, And human hearts, which to her aery tread Yielding not, wounded the invisible Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell: And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they, Rent the soft Form they never could repel, Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May, Pav'd with eternal flowers that undeserving way. XXV In the death-chamber for a moment Death, Sham'd by the presence of that living Might, Blush'd to annihilation, and the breath Revisited those lips, and Life's pale light Flash'd through those limbs, so late her dear delight. "Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless, As silent lightning leaves the starless night! Leave me not!" cried Urania: her distress Rous'd Death: Death rose and smil'd, and met her vain caress. XXVI "Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again; Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live; And in my heartless breast and burning brain That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive, With food of saddest memory kept alive, Now thou art dead, as if it were a part Of thee, my Adonais! I would give All that I am to be as thou now art! But I am chain'd to Time, and cannot thence depart! XXVII "O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart Dare the unpastur'd dragon in his den? Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then Wisdom the mirror'd shield, or scorn the spear? Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when Thy spirit should have fill'd its crescent sphere, The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer. XXVIII "The herded wolves, bold only to pursue; The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead; The vultures to the conqueror's banner true Who feed where Desolation first has fed, And whose wings rain contagion; how they fled, When, like Apollo, from his golden bow The Pythian of the age one arrow sped And smil'd! The spoilers tempt no second blow, They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low. XXIX "The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn; He sets, and each ephemeral insect then Is gather'd into death without a dawn, And the immortal stars awake again; So is it in the world of living men: A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when It sinks, the swarms that dimm'd or shar'd its light Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night." XXX Thus ceas'd she: and the mountain shepherds came, Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent; The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like Heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow; from her wilds Ierne sent The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue. XXXI Midst others of less note, came one frail Form, A phantom among men; companionless As the last cloud of an expiring storm Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess, Had gaz'd on Nature's naked loveliness, Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, Pursu'd, like raging hounds, their father and their prey. XXXII A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift— A Love in desolation mask'd—a Power Girt round with weakness—it can scarce uplift The weight of the superincumbent hour; It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, A breaking billow; even whilst we speak Is it not broken? On the withering flower The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break. XXXIII His head was bound with pansies overblown, And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue; And a light spear topp'd with a cypress cone, Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart Shook the weak hand that grasp'd it; of that crew He came the last, neglected and apart; A herd-abandon'd deer struck by the hunter's dart. XXXIV All stood aloof, and at his partial moan Smil'd through their tears; well knew that gentle band Who in another's fate now wept his own, As in the accents of an unknown land He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scann'd The Stranger's mien, and murmur'd: "Who art thou?" He answer'd not, but with a sudden hand Made bare his branded and ensanguin'd brow, Which was like Cain's or Christ's—oh! that it should be so! XXXV What softer voice is hush'd over the dead? Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown? What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed, In mockery of monumental stone, The heavy heart heaving without a moan? If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, Taught, sooth'd, lov'd, honour'd the departed one, Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs, The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. XXXVI Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh! What deaf and viperous murderer could crown Life's early cup with such a draught of woe? The nameless worm would now itself disown: It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone Whose prelude held all envy, hate and wrong, But what was howling in one breast alone, Silent with expectation of the song, Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung. XXXVII Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame! Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me, Thou noteless blot on a remember'd name! But be thyself, and know thyself to be! And ever at thy season be thou free To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow; Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee; Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt—as now. XXXVIII Nor let us weep that our delight is fled Far from these carrion kites that scream below; He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead; Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal, which must glow Through time and change, unquenchably the same, Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame. XXXIX Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep, He hath awaken'd from the dream of life; 'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings.We decay Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief Convulse us and consume us day by day, And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay. XL He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again; From the contagion of the world's slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceas'd to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. XLI He lives, he wakes—'tis Death is dead, not he; Mourn not for Adonais. Thou young Dawn, Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan! Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air, Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the abandon'd Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair! XLII He is made one with Nature: there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own; Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. XLIII He is a portion of the loveliness Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there All new successions to the forms they wear; Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; And bursting in its beauty and its might From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light. XLIV The splendours of the firmament of time May be eclips'd, but are extinguish'd not; Like stars to their appointed height they climb, And death is a low mist which cannot blot The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, And love and life contend in it for what Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air. XLV The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought, Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton Rose pale, his solemn agony had not Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought And as he fell and as he liv'd and lov'd Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot, Arose; and Lucan, by his death approv'd: Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reprov'd. XLVI And many more, whose names on Earth are dark, But whose transmitted effluence cannot die So long as fire outlives the parent spark, Rose, rob'd in dazzling immortality. "Thou art become as one of us," they cry, "It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long Swung blind in unascended majesty, Silent alone amid a Heaven of Song. Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng!" XLVII Who mourns for Adonais? Oh, come forth, Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright. Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth; As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might Satiate the void circumference: then shrink Even to a point within our day and night; And keep thy heart light lest it make thee sink When hope has kindled hope, and lur'd thee to the brink. XLVIII Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, Oh, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis nought That ages, empires and religions there Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought; For such as he can lend—they borrow not Glory from those who made the world their prey; And he is gather'd to the kings of thought Who wag'd contention with their time's decay, And of the past are all that cannot pass away. XLIX Go thou to Rome—at once the Paradise, The grave, the city, and the wilderness; And where its wrecks like shatter'd mountains rise, And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress The bones of Desolation's nakedness Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead Thy footsteps to a slope of green access Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread; L And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, Pavilioning the dust of him who plann'd This refuge for his memory, doth stand Like flame transform'd to marble; and beneath, A field is spread, on which a newer band Have pitch'd in Heaven's smile their camp of death, Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguish'd breath. LI Here pause: these graves are all too young as yet To have outgrown the sorrow which consign'd Its charge to each; and if the seal is set, Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou find Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonais is, why fear we to become? LII The One remains, the many change and pass; Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly; Life, like a dome of many-colour'd glass, Stains the white radiance of Eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments.—Die, If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek! Follow where all is fled!—Rome's azure sky, Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. LIII Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart? Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here They have departed; thou shouldst now depart! A light is pass'd from the revolving year, And man, and woman; and what still is dear Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. The soft sky smiles, the low wind whispers near: 'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither, No more let Life divide what Death can join together. LIV That Light whose smile kindles the Universe, That Beauty in which all things work and move, That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love Which through the web of being blindly wove By man and beast and earth and air and sea, Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of The fire for which all thirst; now beams on me, Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. LV The breath whose might I have invok'd in song Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven, Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given; The massy earth and sphered skies are riven! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.

In front of the craft shop, a small nativity, mother, baby, sheep made of white and blue balloons.

When I see the cradle rocking What is it that I see? I see a rood on the hilltop Of Calvary. When I hear the cattle lowing What is it that they say? They say that shadows feasted At Tenebrae. When I know that the grave is empty, Absence eviscerates me, And I dwell in a cavernous, constant