Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I

We Are These People, Wistful, Ironical, Wilful, Who Have No Part In New-world Reconstruction, In The Confederacy Of Labour.

The Laying Of Fish On The Embers, The Taste Of The Fish, The Feel Of The Texture Of Bread, The Round And The Half-loaf, The Grain Of A Petal, The Rain-bow And The Rain.

Light Threatens, Is Active, Is Gone, So It Is With A Song.

The Things I Have Are Nameless, Old And True; They May Not Be Named; Few May Live And Know.

The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.