To you particularly, and to all the Volscians
Great hurt and mischief.
Subterrene laughter synchronous
With silence from the sacred wood
And bubbling of the uninspired
The accents of the now retired
Profession of the calamus.
When the bridegroom smoothed his hair
There was blood upon the bed. Morning was already late. Children singing in the orchard
(Io Hymen, Hymenaee)
By arrangement with Perseus
The fooled resentment of the dragon
Sailing before the wind at dawn
Golden apocalypse. Indignant
At the cheap extinction of his taking-off.
Now lies he there
Tip to tip washed beneath Charles' Wagon.