Wallace Stevens She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she. The song and water were not medleyed sound Even if what she sang was what she heard, Since what she sang was uttered word by word. It may be that in all her phrases stirred The grinding water and the gasping wind; But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang. The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea Was merely a place by which she walked to sing. Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew It was the spirit that we sought and knew That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea That rose, or even colored by many waves; If it was only the outer voice of sky And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled, However clear, it would have been deep air, The heaving speech of air, a summer sound Repeated in a summer without end And sound alone. But it was more than that, More even than her voice, and ours, among The meaningless plungings of water and the wind, Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres Of sky and sea. It was her voice that made The sky acutest at its vanishing. She measured to the hour its solitude. She was the single artificer of the world In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea, Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we, As we beheld her striding there alone, Knew that there never was a world for her Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know, Why, when the singing ended and we turned Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights, The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there, As the night descended, tilting in the air, Mastered the night and portioned out the sea, Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles, Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon, The maker’s rage to order words of the sea, Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred, And of ourselves and of our origins, In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know’st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do.
Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our mariage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now; ’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me, Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.
This is my favourite poem: The Flea by John Donne.
>>7596311 The Character of Love Seen as a Search for the Lost
You, the woman; I, the man; this, the world: And each is the work of all.
There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger; The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing Over the walkers in the village; and there are Many beautiful arms about us and the things we know.
See how those stars tramp over heaven on their sticks Of ancient light: with what simplicity that blue Takes eternity into the quiet cave of God, where Caesar And Socrates, like primitive paintings on a wall, Look, with idiot eyes, on the world where we two are.
You, the sought for; I, the seeker; this, the search: And each is the mission of all.
For greatness is only the drayhorse that coaxes The built cart out; and where we go is reason. But genius is an enormous littleness, a trickling Of heart that covers alike the hare and the hunter.
How smoothly, like the sleep of a flower, love, The grassy wind moves over night’s tense meadow: See how the great wooden eyes of the forest Stare upon the architecture of our innocence.
You, the village; I, the stranger; this, the road: And each is the work of all.
Then, not that man do more, or stop pity; but that he be Wider in living; that all his cities fly a clean flag… We have been alone too long, love; it is terribly late For the pierced feet on the water and we must not die now.
Have you wondered why all the windows in heaven were broken? Have you seen the homeless in the open grave of God’s hand? Do you want to acquaint the larks with the fatuous music of war?
There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger; The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing Over the walkers in the village; and there are Many desperate arms about us and the things we know.
Of war and peace the truth just twists Its curfew gull just glides Upon four-legged forest clouds The cowboy angel rides With his candle lit into the sun Though its glow is waxed in black All except when ’neath the trees of Eden
The lamppost stands with folded arms Its iron claws attached To curbs ’neath holes where babies wail Though it shadows metal badge All and all can only fall With a crashing but meaningless blow No sound ever comes from the Gates of Eden
The savage soldier sticks his head in sand And then complains Unto the shoeless hunter who’s gone deaf But still remains Upon the beach where hound dogs bay At ships with tattooed sails Heading for the Gates of Eden
With a time-rusted compass blade Aladdin and his lamp Sits with Utopian hermit monks Sidesaddle on the Golden Calf And on their promises of paradise You will not hear a laugh All except inside the Gates of Eden
Relationships of ownership They whisper in the wings To those condemned to act accordingly And wait for succeeding kings And I try to harmonize with songs The lonesome sparrow sings There are no kings inside the Gates of Eden
The motorcycle black madonna Two-wheeled gypsy queen And her silver-studded phantom cause The gray flannel dwarf to scream As he weeps to wicked birds of prey Who pick up on his bread crumb sins And there are no sins inside the Gates of Eden
The kingdoms of Experience In the precious wind they rot While paupers change possessions Each one wishing for what the other has got And the princess and the prince Discuss what’s real and what is not It doesn’t matter inside the Gates of Eden
The foreign sun, it squints upon A bed that is never mine As friends and other strangers From their fates try to resign Leaving men wholly, totally free To do anything they wish to do but die And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden
At dawn my lover comes to me And tells me of her dreams With no attempts to shovel the glimpse Into the ditch of what each one means At times I think there are no words But these to tell what’s true And there are no truths outside the Gates of Eden
the poem from pale fire is amazing, here's one of my favourite excerpts
And there's the wall of sound: the nightly wall Raised by a trillion crickets in the fall. Impenetrable! Halfway up the hill I'd pause in thrall of their delirious trill. That's Dr. Sutton's light. That's the Great Bear. A thousand years ago five minutes were Equal to forty ounces of fine sand. Outstare the stars. Infinite foretime and Infinite aftertime: above your head They close like giant wings, and you are dead.
Life Everlasting--based on a misprint! I mused as I drove homeward: take the hint And stop investigating my abyss? But all at once it dawned on me that this Was the real point, the contrapuntal theme; Just this: not text, but texture; not the dream But topsy-turvical coincidence, Not flimsy nonsense, but a web of sense. Yes! It sufficed that I in life could find Some kind of link and bobolink, some kind Or correlated pattern in the game, Plexed artistry, and something of the same Pleasure in it as they who played it found.
I have a .txt file I'm working on that has 400+ poets and many poems each. I'll post it on here eventually once I hit 1000. I also ignore all the bad non-poets (Ginsberg, Dylan Thomas, Charles Olson, WC Williams, etc.) and add a bunch of poets that have only like 3 ratings on Goodreads from the 19th and earlier centuries that have been mostly forgotten. It's a quality list
Though I think most people will hate it because for a lot of poets I pick my favorite poems which may not be, in academic consensus, their "best works" i.e. I don't include Paradise Lost by milton but I do include his sonnets and Lycidas and Comus
Charles Olson basically wrote garbage under the auspices of a "newfound poetics" -- which weren't new, they were basically what WC Williams and (more truthfully) Ezra Pound put forward half a century earlier. Charles Olson was a complete fraud, a hack, etc.
The Black Mountainers were trash too but I'm considering adding a poem by either Ed Dorn or Creeley to keep the list from too much fire.
No, Olson is about as "academic" as verse gets. And don't fire on me that "Olson was laid back and hated academics!" No, he was a lazy fuck who didn't read poetry and hadn't any talent and so he wrote garbage and pretended it was new. The sooner forgotten the better.
Thousands of sheep fed up, So they jumped off cliff into bay. They shouldn't survive, But it just goes to show, Where there's wool there's a way
“Cavemen were stupid” is what some say But they created the wheel and fire
I’ve just paid 49 pounds for heating this month And 38 quid for a new tyre!
Who’s stupid again? -
and of course, his first masterpiece...
If moths had eyes, would they be happier? How do they know they're not dead? Cavemen hunting for food But not before they style the hair on their head What would last longer in dinosaur times? A blind man didn't stand a chance Not with all them rocks about I'd rather be a blind moth
>>7597639 > PL is far worse than any of the other efforts I listed. The language just isn't there.
Hahahahhahaha fucking retard. I bet you actually believe this as well.
If thou beest he; But O how fall'n! how chang'd From him who, in the happy Realms of Light Cloth'd with transcendent brightness, didst outshine Myriads though bright: If he whom mutual league, United thoughts and counsels, equal hope, And hazard in the Glorious Enterprise Joynd with me once, now misery hath joined In equal ruin: into what Pit thou seest From what height fall'n, so much the stronger provd He with his Thunder: and till then who knew The force of those dire arms? yet not for those Nor what the Potent Victor in his rage Can else inflict do I repent or change, Though chang'd in outward lustre, that fixt mind And high disdain, from sense of injur'd merit, That with the mightiest rais'd me to contend, And to the fierce contentions brought along Innumerable force of Spirits arm'd That durst dislike his reign, and me preferring, His utmost power with adverse power oppos'd In dubious Battel on the Plains of Heav'n, And shook his throne. What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable Will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield: And what is else not to be overcome? That Glory never shall his wrath or might Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace With suppliant knee, and deify his power Who, from the terror of this arm, so late Doubted his empire, that were low indeed, That were an ignominy and shame beneath This downfall; since by Fate the strength of Gods And this empyreal sybstance, cannot fail;, Since through experience of this great event In Arms not worse, in foresight much advanc't, We may with more successful hope resolve To wage by force or guile eternal War Irreconcilable, to our grand Foe, Who now triumphs, and in th' excess of joy Sole reigning holds the Tyranny of Heav'n.
no, alright, I actually am going to defend myself, and go even harder than before.
First I'll point you to Eliot's essay on Milton. I'm not a huge fan of Eliot, but he's entirely correct.
Next, I'll summarize Ezra Pound's opinion on Milton's capabilities, that unlike Eliot, aren't so nice. I agree very much with him, though I think he goes too far to call the content of the poem lacking (that is, the narrative itself.)
1. He reuses adjectives so incessantly that they become useless and describe absolutely nothing. Essentially, everything is called "luminious" -- but if everything is luminous, what's the point? Everything is bright, so nothing is dark, so everything's the same, so the word "luminous" just becomes a tag of something being "of God". But this is superfluous to me:
> Cloth'd with transcendent brightness > Glorious Enterprise
It is a bit harder to point these things out in a spoken monologue of the poem, because the speaker isn't describing THINGS so much as he's narrating IDEAS that will come to pass. But this leads to more criticisms:
2. The language is entirely stilted, and completely unvaried. Whereas Chaucer worked into his verse the collective poetical vocabularies of the French, the Provencals, the Italians, the Romans, and the Anglo-Saxon tradition (not so much the Greeks except through the Romans, though I personally can't even argue for that, it just isn't there), and Shakespeare -- while stilted himself from average speech, brought us a wealth of metaphor that remains relatively unrivaled in any poetic tradition -- Milton falls back on neoclassical models of poetics (whereas Chaucer experimented with various forms even throughout discrete poems, and Shakespeare by the time of the late plays was bending the fabric of Iambic pentameter so strongly for effect, bringing about some of the greatest genius of his poetic output) and provides no new ideas in form, in musical capabilities of verse, etc. to the language.
3. To build upon my praise of Shakespeare in the former, I'll add that Milton himself was almost entirely devoid of metaphorical capability in Paradise Lost. In the other poems I listed, he is more natural, more interested in the capabilities of language. In Paradise Lost we instead get:
> transcendent brightness > happy Realms of Light > though bright > Glorious Enterprise > outward lustre
it's just bankrupt of any insight from the Muse. We get a tremendously sublime narrative, but about the worst "canonical" poetry in the English language.
I'll leave you with the bright, varied, intellectually inspired verse of Shakespeare, even during a common bout of speech:
Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down, And the great Hector's sword had lack'd a master, But for these instances. The specialty of rule hath been neglected: And, look, how many Grecian tents do stand Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions. When that the general is not like the hive To whom the foragers shall all repair, What honey is expected? Degree being vizarded, The unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask. The heavens themselves, the planets and this centre Observe degree, priority and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office and custom, in all line of order; And therefore is the glorious planet Sol In noble eminence enthroned and sphered Amidst the other; whose medicinable eye Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil, And posts, like the commandment of a king, Sans cheque to good and bad: but when the planets In evil mixture to disorder wander, What plagues and what portents! what mutiny! What raging of the sea! shaking of earth! Commotion in the winds! frights, changes, horrors, Divert and crack, rend and deracinate The unity and married calm of states Quite from their fixure! O, when degree is shaked, Which is the ladder to all high designs, Then enterprise is sick! How could communities, Degrees in schools and brotherhoods in cities, Peaceful commerce from dividable shores, The primogenitive and due of birth, Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels, But by degree, stand in authentic place? Take but degree away, untune that string, And, hark, what discord follows! each thing meets In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores And make a sop of all this solid globe: Strength should be lord of imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead: Force should be right; or rather, right and wrong, Between whose endless jar justice resides, Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then every thing includes itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite; And appetite, an universal wolf, So doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce an universal prey, And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon, This chaos, when degree is suffocate, Follows the choking. And this neglection of degree it is That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose It hath to climb. The general's disdain'd By him one step below, he by the next, That next by him beneath; so every step, Exampled by the first pace that is sick Of his superior, grows to an envious fever Of pale and bloodless emulation: And 'tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot, Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength. No, I think it's fair to say that the books have it wrong, saying that Shakespeare was a dramatist, and Milton a poet.
Milton, in PL, is a dramatist with a shallow poetic reserve. Shakespeare is in most cases a transcendent poet with a shallow dramatic reserve, other than in the best plays (in terms of their being PLAYS)
The shitty St. Milton one, and the Shakespeare one.
Shakespeare's reads, despite it's flowers, so incredibly human -- breaks and pauses like speech, the character (Ulysses here) weighing options (and it shows by the syntax, the reversals, etc.) Shakespeare has just captured a personality on the page.
Read the Milton one. HAPPY REALMS OF LIGHT... GOD IS BAD! blah blah blah. It never ends! And all of the characters speak like this! Even in the Old Testament the characters speak with more personality. You don't get the (buried) emotion of "But what if there's only 20 good people in the city? Will you burn it down then, YHWH?" No, it's Milton basically talking at us, saying "this is what the character is thinking!" And then not even having the nerve to do anything interesting with the form, the language, etc.
I call Lycidas his best achievement, because it is incredibly charged with Milton's own personality, and while it's not as wealthy as Shakespeare (who is?) it's a fine poem. Milton tried to make PL decadent by hammering it in with a fine layer of gold gilding. Of course he was blind by the time of PL, and must've grabbed the rusty iron sheets instead.
This is why Shakespeare is relevant on the world stage as one of the best cross-language writers to have ever existed. Milton isn't important to anybody but the English. And by that I mean England. And it's stifling. St. Milton, hurrah!
ok i appreciate the effort but most of this simply boils down to subjective preference on some very vague notions.
and boy talk about moving goalposts - first it was "PL is worse than lycidas/comus/whatever" and suddenly it turned into milton vs. shakespeare. stop knocking down your own strawmen literally no one was interested in starting a milton vs shakespeare shitfest, we were calling out your ridiculous assertion that PL is a "minor" milton work, which you didn't address at all.
But he didn't BTFO anything, he doesn't even respond to any of the points I put forward. His is as much a shitpost as any other.
I put forward an unmemorable piece from an unmemorable (and generally hated) Shakespeare play. This is just to show, NOT to make it Shakes v. Milton, how bankrupt Milton's vocabulary is. I was essentially arguing that Milton isn't an important English poet to anyone after the 18th/early 19th centuries. He verges on a being a minor English-language poet for the actual accomplishment of his verse. In terms of influence he's a major influence, though that's more a tragedy than anything.
"Subjective" blah blah blah. I put forward some concrete examples. "Happy lands of light" is just mediocre verse. Sure it's subjective, but the more you read, the more likely anyone with a sensible brain will have to roll their eyes at this one. There's something this bad every 7 or so lines. That's just bad verse.
I moved the goalposts because poetry doesn't exist in a vacuum. Milton is just incredibly inferior to his predecessors, and just as inferior to his successors. I'd even say that Shelley was a better "poet", in the sense of his metaphorical range, his variance of language, etc. In PL, Milton has little poetic capability and in Comus and Lycidas, he's a braver poet. Really all you have to do is read them with some knowledge of the history of poetry. It's subjective, but only in the sense of how much you've read before you read him.
There's a reason Harold Bloom and other critics who praise him even today won't dare to talk about his language. Milton basically wrote a novel. Nobody cares about the individual words in his poetic texture, because it's all the same, and nothing stands out. There's a reason why almost anyone who reads mLost reads it as if it might as well be a novel. It's a dramatic novel set in iambic pentameter. It's not poetry that happens to be epic, it's an epic that happens to be in verse.
So back to "moving the goalposts", no, the more goalposts you add the field of the argument, the worse Milton looks. Feel free to add more poets to the argument. Milton will decay further.
And I'll clear things up: Milton wrote one of the best novels in history. Milton WAS a genius. Absolutely.
But Paradise Lost, while a great achievement of narrative imagination, is a failure as poetry. Even the greats like Virgil, Dante, Homer, etc. were genius as "poets" in the sense I'm trying to argue. Dante shifts his vocabulary frequently between low and high verse, and his visual imagination is off the walls. Virgil was an expert of Latin-language literary devices, even though the narrative itself in the Aeneid is a bit poor. Homer has the strengths of all of the above. Milton's narrative is on par with that of Homer's, but he fails in all other regards.
your original point was literally PL was worse than other Milton, it had absolutely NOTHING with any other poet or how important Milton is compared to other poets. Like literally nothing.
And then when you were asked to back up your absurd assertion that PL is a "minor" Milton work you went first to memes and then to Milton vs. any other poet you could think of and then back to memes again.
>>7599548 >And then when you were asked to back up your absurd assertion that PL is a "minor" Milton work
I never said it was a "minor Milton work"
I said it was a POOR Milton work. It's his "magnum opus", if you will. The great 17th century novel. But it's shitty poetry.
> Like literally nothing.
Well now it does. Milton is in the bottom ranks of the poetic canon if we're only considering Paradise Lost. His verbal genius comes out only in the Sonnets and Lycidas, and some of Comus.
I have spread you a table of many points to refute. You're saying I'm spreading memes.
If this was about some other poet that wasn't a populist favorite -- say, Ben Jonson, or George Herbert, or I'm sure if I picked a minor Modernist -- then there would be no opposition.
Refute anything I said by actually referring to what I wrote, rather than saying I haven't argued the way you want me to. Too bad, we're either going to argue my way, or not at all. I don't care if you say I'm a retard, I'm anonymous and the only thing I care about is seeing whether it's true that St. Milton is untouchable. So far I'm kinda seeing that Milton is probably less touchable than Shakespeare or Homer or Dante. In fact, I have never seen a post here picking on Milton, but many on Dante. Dante is the good poet, too. Oh, and a better NARRATIVE writer. But I won't go into that.
You can't argue, and if you can, you're just a bit lazy. Feel free to post a non-monologue section of PL and I'll readily pick it apart for the boring mess it is.
no, I've just actually got something to argue with. The argument has changed. I've moved the goalposts. Shakespeare is on the field now. the entire canon is on the field now. Otherwise we have no way of seeing whether PL holds up as "good poetry". It's common sense.
I refuse to argue about how good Milton's Paradise Lost is as poetry if it's to be argued in a vacuum. We either argue with the canon on the table or not. There is no possibility for argument either way otherwise.
>>7599591 >you said pl is worse than lycidas and comus.
As poetry, yes.
> people call you out.
as expected with St. Milton's populist army.
> you now say pl is worse than shakespeare
And more than just Shakes!
> allowing that, it has zero bearing on pl versus lycidas and comus
Of course not. I'm starting by eliminating PL so that I can actually focus on his good poetry. I was asked why I didn't include PL but did include the others. So far I've only had the chance to talk about why I DIDN'T include PL.
But there's no argument so far, hence I haven't had the chance to argue (with textual examples) why the Sonnets or Lycidas are significantly better. And at this point I'm not sure I'm willing to, given that all of my responses have been: >>7599590 by the largely unread army of St. Milton.
>>7599606 Don't be delusional, there is no "unread army of St. Milton." People are calling you out to back such a large claim as "PL is far worse than [his sonnets and Lycidas and Comus]." I suppose part of the desire to attack you comes from the desire to prove you wrong since you are dismissing important poems/poets. So far, I don't buy your arguments, which come down to: "It's trash, anyone 'with a sensible brain' who's read poetry can see it's trash." That's a non-argument, and an excuse for subjectivity.
Other things. Why do you equate "metaphorical range, variance of language, etc." (I can only assume your et cetera is "shifts of vocabulary" and "visual imagination"; "literary devices" is incredibly broad) with being a "poet"? If you have all these things in poetry, do they make great poetry? Specifically, I take issue with metaphorical range and variance of language. I could equally argue for metaphorical depth and a sustain of one level or register of language as elements of great poetry.
there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you. there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he's in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe? there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep. I say, I know that you're there, so don't be sad. then I put him back, but he's singing a little in there, I haven't quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it's nice enough to make a man weep, but I don't weep, do you?
>>7596311 Once upon a time God made this Elephant. Then it was delicate and small It was not freakish at all Or melancholy
The Hyenas sang in the scrub You are beautiful-- They showed their scorched heads and grinning expressions Like the half-rotted stumps of amputations-- We envy your grace Waltzing through the thorny growth O take us with you to the Land of Peaceful O ageless eyes, of innocence and kindliness Lift us from the furnaces And furies of our blackened faces Within these hells we writhe Shut in behind the bars of our teeth In hourly battle with death The size of the earth Having the strength of the earth
So the Hyenas ran under the Elephant's tail As like a lithe and rubber oval He strolled gladly around inside his ease But he was not God no it was not his To correct the damned In rage in madness then they lit their mouths They tore out his entrails They divided him among their several hells To cry all his separate pieces Swallowed and inflamed Amidst paradings of infernal laughter.
At the Resurrection The Elephant got himself together with correction Deadfall feet and toothproof body and bulldozing bones And completely altered brains Behind aged eyes, that were wicked and wise.
So through the orange blaze and blue shadow Of the afterlife, effortless and immense, The Elephant goes his own way, a walking sixth sense, And opposite and parallel The sleepless Hyenas go Along a leafless skyline trembling like an oven roof With a whipped run Their shame-flags tucked hard down Over the gutsacks Crammed with putrefying laughter Soaked black with the leakage and seepings And they sing: "Ours is the land Of loveliness and beautiful Is the putrid mouth of the leopard And the graves of fever Because it is all we have--" And they vomit their laughter.
And the Elephant sings deep in the forest-maze About a star of deathless and painless peace But no astronomer can find where it is. Ted Hughes
A tap of your finger on the drum releases all sounds and initiates the new harmony. A step of yours is the conscription of the new men and their marching orders. You look away: the new love! You look back,—the new love! “Change our fates, shoot down the plagues, beginning with time,” the children sing to you. “Build wherever you can the substance of our fortunes and our wishes,” they beg you. Arriving from always, you’ll go away everywhere.
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