I cannot help but think it right
That Muses sing and Muses write
To the ends of the all-encroaching night
And that the policy of Mary Patten
In love with light from a far-off lantern
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Illumines the time in rounded breeches
Fat on the foam that beats on the beaches
And flows on the foil of trees at dusk,
Illumined silvers of secreted musk.
If all this is merely mumbojumbo
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You’ve got to realise I’m seated at prayer
Upon a toil seat of unhappy heirs.
(from “The Light Of Day (1)”)