relinquished but your earthly sight, To hold you dear in a more distant way. I'll love the 'buses lumbering through the wet, Even more than when I lightly tripped as they. The grimy colour of the London clay Is lovely yet,'
"because I have found the house where I was really born; the tall and quiet house from which I can see London afar off, as the miracle of man that it is."
A sunset of copper and gold had just broken down and gone to pieces in the west, and grey colours were crawling over everything in earth and heaven; also a wind was growing, a wind that laid a cold finger upon flesh and spirit. The bushes at the back of my garden began to whisper like conspirators; and then to wave like wild hands in signal. I was trying to read by the last light that died on the lawn a long poem of the decadent period, a poem about the old gods of Babylon and Egypt, about their blazing and obscene temples, their cruel and colossal faces.
"Or didst thou love the God of Flies wh
Read his essay on gargoyles. "Realism is romantiscism that's lost its way..." Good stuff!
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