The Nacreous Oughts

30 April 2004


He could not fall so far,
Nor ever be so lost in a murmuration
Of dreams as not to lie
Still on the startled path of evocation.

Whose voice was it that scattered
The deep defence of sleep, that flattered
The dubious brain into escapade?

It was the frigid hour of resurrection
When he arose, and night drew back
From the body that slid from all correction,
Whose implacable face
Knew the blotted road and the empty appointed place."

J. R. Hervey

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