Let Him Easter In Us, Be A

Not, I’ll Not, Carrion Comfort, Despair, Not Feast On Thee; Not Untwist—slack They May Be—these Last Strands Of Man In Me ór, Most Weary, Cry I Can No More. I Can; Can Something, Hope, Wish Day Come, Not Choose Not To Be.

Because The Holy Ghost Over The Bent World Broods With Warm Breast And With Ah! Bright Wings.

Do You Know, A Horrible Thing Has Happened To Me. I Have Begun To Doubt Tennyson.

Searching Nature I Taste Self But At One Tankard, That Of My Own Being.

Look At The Stars! Look, Look Up At The Skies! Oh Look At All The Fire-folk Sitting In The Air! The Bright Boroughs, The Circle-citadels There!