Cammel, whirledīeyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear What will the spider do,ĭelay? De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,Įxcite the membrane, when the sense has cooled, These with a thousand small deliberations How should I use it for your closer contact? I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch: I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition.
I that was near your heart was removed therefrom These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree. Unnatural vicesĪre forced upon us by our impudent crimes. Into weak hands, what’s thought can be dispensed with What’s not believed in, or if still believed, She gives when our attention is distractedĪnd what she gives, gives with such supple confusions History has many cunning passages, contrived corridorsĪnd issues, deceives with whispering ambitions, Vacant shuttlesĪfter such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door. In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas, The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter. The goat coughs at night in the field overhead Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,Īnd the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,īlistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London. Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
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