Greatly bloody fitter finest
Pass it playing in a field sliding
In the ocean of desire in
Peace and doing; bought yet broken.
Good Christ! You can’t dream of being here, now,
Once seen in these regions of satisfaction, can you?
Pass it by in homes of weeping
Deep streets truest duty of the wind
Again and again stopping the morning
What mind is given to this minute of matter
This quiet soul of other purest character?
Talking shouting knocking off hats in the whirlwind
You come here to beg a promise from the daughter of Wednesday
And leave empty-handed, no true landing will be allowed
No favor will be given.