Paschal joy is imminent. After great pain a formal feeling comes. The beloved fellow-creature is near, the one with whom alone I've followed creation further in and farther on. My song. Three darts into the heart of Absalom, while he was yet alive in the midst of the oak. Joseph Sykes's stones stand hard, soft schist from salt-swamps, waiting for sun to come athwart them and thicken their lines with shadow to animate the faces figured there. Like a slide quiet in its slot before the bulb's switched on. I love the ocean, I love the linguage, I love the melodies and the countermelodies. Where did you go. Under a rosebush that dies back every winter. I miss the place of rest, you, Sofferetti, your lap. Where is your lap? You are continually dismantling it, forming it up again every time you sit down.