Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs

About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the
calves
Sang to my horn, the foes on the hills bar!ed clear and
cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
"ields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it
was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the
night#ars
"lying with the ric!s, and the horses
"lashing into the dar!.
And then to awa!e, and the farm, li!e a wanderer white
$ith the dew, come bac!, the coc! on his shoulder% it was
all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The s!y gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses
wal!ing warm
&ut of the whinnying green stable
&n to the fields of praise.
And honoured among foes and pheasants by the gay house
'nder the new made clouds and happy as the heart was
long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
(y wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my s!y blue trades, that time
allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
)efore the children green and golden
"ollow him out of grace,
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would
ta!e me
'p to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wa!e to the farm forever fled from the childless
land.
&h as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains li!e the sea.
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age* that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the croo!ed rose
(y youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the roc!s
Drives my red blood* that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wa.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
+ow at the mountain spring the same mouth suc!s.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the ,uic!sand* that ropes the blowing wind
+auls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
+ow of my clay is made the hangman-s lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head*
.ove drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather-s wind
+ow time has tic!ed a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover-s tomb
+ow at my sheet goes the same croo!ed worm.
My Hero Bares His Nerves by Dylan Thomas
(y hero bares his nerves along my wrist
That rules from wrist to shoulder,
'npac!s the head that, li!e a sleepy ghost,
.eans on my mortal ruler,
The proud spine spurning turn and twist.
And these poor nerves so wired to the s!ull
Ache on the lovelorn paper
I hug to love with my unruly scrawl
That utters all love hunger
And tells the page the empty ill.
(y hero bares my side and sees his heart
Tread, li!e a na!ed /enus,
The beach of flesh, and wind her bloodred plait*
Stripping my loin of promise,
+e promises a secret heat.
+e holds the wire from the bo of nerves
0raising the mortal error
&f birth and death, the two sad !naves of thieves,
And the hunger-s emperor*
+e pulls the chain, the cistern moves.
Light breaks where no sun shines by Dylan Thomas
.ight brea!s where no sun shines*
$here no sea runs, the waters of the heart
0ush in their tides*
And, bro!en ghosts with glow1worms in their heads,
The things of light
"ile through the flesh where no flesh dec!s the bones.
A candle in the thighs
$arms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age*
$here no seed stirs,
The fruit of man unwrin!les in the stars,
)right as a fig*
$here no wa is, the candle shows its hairs.
Dawn brea!s behind the eyes*
"rom poles of s!ull and toe the windy blood
Slides li!e a sea*
Nor fenced, nor sta!ed, the gushers of the s!y
Spout to the rod
Divining in a smile the oil of tears.
Night in the soc!ets rounds,
.i!e some pitch moon, the limit of the globes*
Day lights the bone*
$here no cold is, the s!inning gales unpin
The winter-s robes*
The film of spring is hanging from the lids.
.ight brea!s on secret lots,
&n tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain*
$hen logics dies,
The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
And blood #umps in the sun*
Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.
O Make Me A Mask by Dylan Thomas
& ma!e me a mas! and a wall to shut from your spies
&f the sharp, enamelled eyes and the spectacled claws
2ape and rebellion in the nurseries of my face,
Gag of dumbstruc! tree to bloc! from bare enemies
The bayonet tongue in this undefended prayerpiece,
The present mouth, and the sweetly blown trumpet of lies,
Shaped in old armour and oa! the countenance of a dunce
To shield the glistening brain and blunt the eaminers,
And a tear1stained widower grief drooped from the lashes
To veil belladonna and let the dry eyes perceive
&thers betray the lamenting lies of their losses
)y the curve of the nude mouth or the laugh up the
sleeve.
Clown n The Moon by Dylan Thomas
(y tears are li!e the ,uiet drift
&f petals from some magic rose*
And all my grief flows from the rift
&f unremembered s!ies and snows.
I thin!, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble*
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously li!e a dream.
A !efusal to Mourn the "eath# by Fire# of a Child in
London by Dylan Thomas
Never until the man!ind ma!ing
)ird beast and flower
"athering and all humbling dar!ness
Tells with silence the last light brea!ing
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
And I must enter again the round
3ion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
&r sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sac!cloth to mourn
The ma#esty and burning of the child-s death.
I shall not murder
The man!ind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
$ith any further
4legy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies .ondon-s daughter,
2obed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dar! veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
&f the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
A$ong Those %illed n The "awn !aid &as A Man Aged A
Hundred by Dylan Thomas
$hen the morning was wa!ing over the war
+e put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The loc!s yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
+e dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell his street on its bac! he stopped a sun
And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire
$hen all the !eys shot from the loc!s, and rang.
Dig no more for the chains of his grey1haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound
Assembling waits for the spade-s ring on the cage.
& !eep his bones away from the common cart,
The morning is flying on the wings of his age
And a hundred stor!s perch on the sun-s right hand.
f &ere Tickled By the !ub of Love by Dylan Thomas
If I were tic!led by the rub of love,
A roo!ing girl who stole me for her side,
)ro!e through her straws, brea!ing my bandaged string,
If the red tic!le as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.
Shall it be male or female5 say the cells,
And drop the plum li!e fire from the flesh.
If I were tic!led by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby-s thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the ae
Nor the crossed stic!s of war.
Shall it be male or female5 say the fingers
That chal! the walls with greet girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling1in of love
If I were tic!led by the urchin hungers
2ehearsing heat upon a raw1edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the loin
Nor the outspo!en grave.
If I were tic!led by the lovers- rub
That wipes away not crow-s1foot nor the loc!
&f sic! old manhood on the fallen #aws,
Time and the crabs and the sweethearting crib
$ould leave me cold as butter for the flies
The sea of scums could drown me as it bro!e
Dead on the sweethearts- toes.
This world is half the devil-s and my own,
Daft with the drug that-s smo!ing in a girl
And curling round the bud that for!s her eye.
An old man-s shan! one1marrowed with my bone,
And all the herrings smelling in the sea,
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
$earing the ,uic! away.
And that-s the rub, the only rub that tic!les.
The !nobbly ape that swings along his se
"rom damp love1dar!ness and the nurse-s twist
6an never raise the midnight of a chuc!le,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
&f lover, mother, lovers, or his si
"eet in the rubbing dust.
And what-s the rub5 Death-s feather on the nerve5
7our mouth, my love, the thistle in the !iss5
(y 8ac! of 6hrist born thorny on the tree5
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
(y wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tic!led by the rub that is%
(an be my metaphor.
Our 'unuch "rea$s by Dylan Thomas
I
&ur eunuch dreams, all seedless in the light,
&f light and love the tempers of the heart,
$hac! their boys- limbs,
And, winding1footed in their shawl and sheet,
Groom the dar! brides, the widows of the night
"old in their arms.
The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds,
$hen sunlight goes are sundered from the worm,
The bones of men, the bro!en in their beds,
)y midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb.
II
In this our age the gunman and his moll
Two one1dimensional ghosts, love on a reel,
Strange to our solid eye,
And spea! their midnight nothings as they swell*
$hen cameras shut they hurry to their hole
down in the yard of day.
They dance between their arclamps and our s!ull,
Impose their shots, showing the nights away*
$e watch the show of shadows !iss or !ill
"lavoured of celluloid give love the lie.
III
$hich is the world5 &f our two sleepings, which
Shall fall awa!e when cures and their itch
2aise up this red1eyed earth5
0ac! off the shapes of daylight and their starch,
The sunny gentlemen, the $elshing rich,
&r drive the night1geared forth.
The photograph is married to the eye,
Grafts on its bride one1sided s!ins of truth*
The dream has suc!ed the sleeper of his faith
That shrouded men might marrow as they fly.
I/
This is the world* the lying li!eness of
&ur strips of stuff that tatter as we move
.oving and being loth*
The dream that !ic!s the buried from their sac!
And lets their trash be honoured as the ,uic!.
This is the world. +ave faith.
"or we shall be a shouter li!e the coc!,
)lowing the old dead bac!* our shots shall smac!
The image from the plates*
And we shall be fit fellows for a life,
And who remains shall flower as they love,
0raise to our faring hearts.
n My Craft Or (ullen Art by Dylan Thomas
In my craft or sullen art
4ercised in the still night
$hen only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
$ith all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
&r the strut and trade of charms
&n the ivory stages
)ut for the common wages
&f their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
"rom the raging moon I write
&n these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
$ith their nightingales and psalms
)ut for the lovers, their arms
2ound the griefs of the ages,
$ho pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
"o Not )o )entle nto That )ood Night by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
&ld age should burn and rave at close of day*
2age, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end !now dar! is right,
)ecause their words had for!ed no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
2age, rage against the dying of the light.
$ild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
)lind eyes could bla9e li!e meteors and be gay,
2age, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
6urse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
2age, rage against the dying of the light.
All That Owe The Fellows Of The )rave by Dylan Thomas
All that I owe the fellows of the grave
And all the dead be,ueathed from pale estates
.ies in the fortuned bone, the flas! of blood,
.i!e senna stirs along the ravaged roots.
& all I owe is all the flesh inherits,
(y fathers- loves that pull upon my nerves,
(y sisters tears that sing upon my head
(y brothers- blood that salts my open wounds
+eir to the scalding veins that hold love-s drop,
(y fallen filled, that had the hint of death,
+eir to the telling senses that alone
Ac,uaint the flesh with a remembered itch,
I round this heritage as rounds the sun
+is windy s!y, and, as the candles moon,
6ast light upon my weather. I am heir
To women who have twisted their last smile,
To children who were suc!led on a plague,
To young adorers dying on a !iss.
All such disease I doctor in my blood,
And all such love-s a shrub sown in the breath.
Then loo!, my eyes, upon this bonehead fortune
And browse upon the postures of the dead*
All night and day I eye the ragged globe
Through periscopes rightsighted from the grave*
All night and day I wander in these same
$a clothes that wa upon the aging ribs*
All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
Then loo!, my heart, upon the scarlet trove,
And loo!, my grain, upon the falling wheat*
All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
"eaths And 'ntrances by Dylan Thomas
&n almost the incendiary eve
&f several near deaths,
$hen one at the great least of your best loved
And always !nown must leave
.ions and fires of his flying breath,
&f your immortal friends
$ho-d raise the organs of the counted dust
To shoot and sing your praise,
&ne who called deepest down shall hold his peace
That cannot sin! or cease
4ndlessly to his wound
In many married .ondon-s estranging grief.
&n almost the incendiary eve
$hen at your lips and !eys,
.oc!ing, unloc!ing, the murdered strangers weave,
&ne who is most un!nown,
7our polestar neighbour, sun of another street,
$ill dive up to his tears.
+e-ll bathe his raining blood in the male sea
$ho strode for your own dead
And wind his globe out of your water thread
And load the throats of shells
with every cry since light
"lashed first across his thunderclapping eyes.
&n almost the incendiary eve
&f deaths and entrances,
$hen near and strange wounded on .ondon-s waves
+ave sought your single grave,
&ne enemy, of many, who !nows well
7our heart is luminous
In the watched dar!, ,uivering through loc!s and caves,
$ill pull the thunderbolts
To shut the sun, plunge, mount your dar!ened !eys
And sear #ust riders bac!,
'ntil that one loved least
.ooms the last Samson of your 9odiac.
'legy by Dylan Thomas
Too proud to die* bro!en and blind he died
The dar!est way, and did not turn away,
A cold !ind man brave in his narrow pride
&n that dar!est day. &h, forever may
+e lie lightly, at last, on the last, crossed
+ill, under the grass, in love, and there grow
7oung among the long floc!s, and never lie lost
&r still all the numberless days of his death, though
Above all he longed for his mother-s breast
$hich was rest and dust, and in the !ind ground
The dar!est #ustice of death, blind and unblessed.
.et him find no rest but be fathered and found,
I prayed in the crouching room, by his blind bed,
In the muted house, one minute before
Noon, and night, and light. The rivers of the dead
/eined his poor hand I held, and I saw
Through his unseeing eyes to the roots of the sea.
:An old tormented man three1,uarters blind,
I am not too proud to cry that +e and he
$ill never never go out of my mind.
All his bones crying, and poor in all but pain,
)eing innocent, he dreaded that he died
+ating his God, but what he was was plain%
An old !ind man brave in his burning pride.
The stic!s of the house were his* his boo!s he owned.
4ven as a baby he had never cried*
Nor did he now, save to his secret wound.
&ut of his eyes I saw the last light glide.
+ere among the light of the lording s!y
An old blind man is with me where I go
$al!ing in the meadows of his son-s eye
&n whom a world of ills came down li!e snow.
+e cried as he died, fearing at last the spheres-
.ast sound, the world going out without a breath%
Too proud to cry, too frail to chec! the tears,
And caught between two nights, blindness and death.
& deepest wound of all that he should die
&n that dar!est day. &h, he could hide
The tears out of his eyes, too proud to cry.
ncarnate "evil by Dylan Thomas
Incarnate devil in a tal!ing sna!e,
The central plains of Asia in his garden,
In shaping1time the circle stung awa!e,
In shapes of sin for!ed out the bearded apple,
And God wal!ed there who was a fiddling warden
And played down pardon from the heavens- hill.
$hen we were strangers to the guided seas,
A handmade moon half holy in a cloud,
The wisemen tell me that the garden gods
Twined good and evil on an eastern tree*
And when the moon rose windily it was
)lac! as the beast and paler than the cross.
$e in our 4den !new the secret guardian
In sacred waters that no frost could harden,
And in the mighty mornings of the earth*
+ell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth,
All heaven in the midnight of the sun,
A serpent fiddled in the shaping1time.
"rea$ed My )enesis by Dylan Thomas
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, brea!ing
Through the rotating shell, strong
As motor muscle on the drill, driving
Through vision and the girdered nerve.
"rom limbs that had the measure of the worm, shuffled
&ff from the creasing flesh, filed
Through all the irons in the grass, metal
&f suns in the man1melting night.
+eir to the scalding veins that hold love-s drop, costly
A creature in my bones I
2ounded my globe of heritage, #ourney
In bottom gear through night1geared man.
I dreamed my genesis and died again, shrapnel
2ammed in the marching heart, hole
In the stitched wound and clotted wind, mu99led
Death on the mouth that ate the gas.
Sharp in my second death I mar!ed the hills, harvest
&f hemloc! and the blades, rust
(y blood upon the tempered dead, forcing
(y second struggling from the grass.
And power was contagious in my birth, second
2ise of the s!eleton and
2erobing of the na!ed ghost. (anhood
Spat up from the resuffered pain.
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of death, fallen
Twice in the feeding sea, grown
Stale of Adam-s brine until, vision
&f new man strength, I see! the sun.
Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden
Stop all the cloc!s, cut off the telephone,
0revent the dog from bar!ing with a #uicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
)ring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
.et aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the s!y the message +e is Dead.
0ut crepe bows round the white nec!s of the public doves,
.et the traffic policemen wear blac! cotton gloves.
+e was my North, my South, my 4ast and $est,
(y wor!ing wee! and my Sunday rest,
(y noon, my midnight, my tal!, my song*
I thought that love would last forever% I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now* put out every one,
0ac! up the moon and dismantle the sun,
0our away the ocean and sweep up the woods*
"or nothing now can ever come to any good.
'*ita*h On A Tyrant by W. H. Auden
0erfection, of a !ind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand*
+e !new human folly li!e the bac! of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets*
$hen he laughed, respectable senators burst with
laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the
streets.
f Could Tell +ou by W. H. Auden
Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only !nows the price we have to pay*
If I could tell you I would let you !now.
If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
There are no fortunes to be told, although,
)ecause I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you !now.
The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay*
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
0erhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay*
If I could tell you I would let you !now.
Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the broo!s and soldiers run away*
$ill Time say nothing but I told you so5
If I could tell you I would let you !now.
The ,nknown Citi-en by W. H. Auden
:To 8S;<=;(;>=?; This (arble (onument
Is 4rected by the State@
+e was found by the )ureau of Statistics to be
&ne against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an oldfashioned word, he was
a
saint,
"or in everything he did he served the Greater 6ommunity.
4cept for the $ar till the day he retired
+e wor!ed in a factory and never got fired
)ut satisfied his employers, "udge (otors Inc.
7et he wasn-t a scab or odd in his views,
"or his 'nion reports that he paid his dues,
:&ur report on his 'nion shows it was sound@
And our Social 0sychology wor!ers found
That he was popular with his mates and li!ed a drin!.
The 0ress are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in
every
way.
0olicies ta!en out in his name prove that he was fully
insured,
And his +ealth1card shows he was once in hospital but
left it
cured.
)oth 0roducers 2esearch and +igh1Grade .iving declare
+e was fully sensible to the advantages of the
Installment 0lan
And had everything necessary to the (odern (an,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
&ur researchers into 0ublic &pinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year*
$hen there was peace, he was for peace* $hen there was
war,
he went.
+e was married and added five children to the population,
$hich our 4ugenist says was the right number for a parent
of
his generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with
their
education.
$as he free5 $as he happy5 The ,uestion is absurd%
+ad anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.
As &alked Out One 'vening by W. H. Auden
As I wal!ed out one evening,
$al!ing down )ristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
$ere fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
'nder an arch of the railway%
A.ove has no ending.
AI-ll love you, dear, I-ll love you
Till 6hina and Africa meet,
And the river #umps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
AI-ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go s,uaw!ing
.i!e geese about the s!y.
AThe years shall run li!e rabbits,
"or in my arms I hold
The "lower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.A
)ut all the cloc!s in the city
)egan to whirr and chime%
A& let not Time deceive you,
7ou cannot con,uer Time.
AIn the burrows of the Nightmare
$here 8ustice na!ed is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would !iss.
AIn headaches and in worry
/aguely life lea!s away,
And Time will have his fancy
To1morrow or to1day.
AInto many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow*
Time brea!s the threaded dances
And the diver-s brilliant bow.
A& plunge your hands in water,
0lunge them in up to the wrist*
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you-ve missed.
AThe glacier !noc!s in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crac! in the tea1cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
A$here the beggars raffle the ban!notes
And the Giant is enchanting to 8ac!,
And the .ily1white )oy is a 2oarer,
And 8ill goes down on her bac!.
A& loo!, loo! in the mirror5
& loo! in your distress%
.ife remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
A& stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start*
7ou shall love your croo!ed neighbour
$ith your croo!ed heart.A
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone*
The cloc!s had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
Let History Be My .udge by W. H. Auden
$e made all possible preparations,
Drew up a list of firms,
6onstantly revised our calculations
And allotted the farms,
Issued all the orders epedient
In this !ind of case%
(ost, as was epectd, were obedient,
Though there were murmurs, of course*
6hiefly against our eercising
&ur old right to abuse%
4ven some sort of attempt at rising,
)ut these were mere boys.
"or never serious misgiving
&ccurred to anyone,
Since there could be no ,uestion of living
If we did not win.
The generally accepted view teaches
That there was no ecuse,
Though in the light of recent researches
(any would find the cause
In a not uncommon form of terror*
&thers, still more astute,
0oint to possibilities of error
At the very start.
As for ourselves there is left remaining
&ur honour at least,
And a reasonable chance of retaining
&ur faculties to the last.
The Fall Of !o$e by W. H. Auden
The piers are pummelled by the waves*
In a lonely field the rain
.ashes and abandoned train*
&utlaws fill the mountain caves.
"antastic grow the evening gowns*
Agenst of the "isc pursue
Absconding ta1defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.
0rivate rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep*
All the literati !eep
An imaginary friend.
6erebrotonic 6ato may
4tol the Ancient Disciplines,
)ut the muscle1bound (arines
(utiny for food and pay.
6aesar-s double1bed is warm
As an unimportatnt cler!
$rites I D& N&T .IB4 (7 $&2B
&n a pin! official form.
'nendowed with wealth or pity
.ittle birds with scalet legs,
Sitting on their spec!led eggs,
4ye each flu1infected city.
Altogether elsewhere, vast
+erds of reindeer move across
(iles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.