I moved from Shelley to Keats, through Eliot,
and so to Yeats, waiting at home. Only
Mad Blake and the great Will himself,
loved much in youth, much more now,
walked with me all the way: from Alone
and palely loitering to Soul clap
its hands and sing, I fall upon the thorns
of life and Let us go now you and I
to: Ask Caiaphas for he was there
and Pray you, undo this button. Thank you, sir.
Living on Land 