Such possessions as gore me pontificate from corners.
I am no longer solid but a speech of butterflies.
How it spills, when all is said and done:
It is hard to see virtue in the cold matter
Sometime, leaving this violent vision,
I’ll sing up joy and glory to assenting angels.
Let none of the clearstruck hammers of my heart
fail against softening, uncertain or
One thing to sing the beloved. Another, alas,
that hidden guilty rivergod of blood.
Her distantly known boy, her lover, what does he know
of the lords of lust, who often, out of his loneliness,
Every angel is terrible. And yet, alas,
when I hear of you, deadly birds of the soul,
I desire you. How long since the days of Tobias,
when one of the radiant would stand at the plain front door,
Who, if I cry, hears me among the angelic
orders? and even supposing one of them seized me
suddenly to his heart: I’d vanish
in his violent presence. For beauty is nothing