From the East a river falls, through venom dales, with mire and clods, godly slough, as is recognized. The Deities into imagination prance, coltish, even fresh of desperation. The troupe of Deities en masse bring gravity low and firm. True rocks, true planetary quiver on the plain, true spice of wind and formal rain. From East, invigorated just this minute, and to the embracing nest that is west. One named impulse brings the spear of lightning. Another vibrates to the tune of thunder. Note how easy the word seems, echo upon echo. Listen again, the true note begins.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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