To what, I speak to all and I,
May flowing rivers tide inside
Decrepit coves and solemn sides
So lonely from the moons resign?
What may we say to course the froth
Along it's churning, winding sloth
And rising, falling body. Doth
The surface tell us off?
For what, I say to you and them,
Can truly be derived from hence?
Within the cauldrons broiling pen
Lies truth, alone in penance.
What speak the faceless, ownless words
That all through time have left the herds,
What weird and olden things be known
By sea and serpents own?
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For The Weeping Angel
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