O Hell! what doe mine eyes with grief behold,
Into our room of bliss thus high advanc't
Creatures of other mould, earth-born perhaps,
Not Spirits, yet to heav'nly Spirits bright
Little inferior; whom my thoughts pursue
With wonder, and could love, so lively shines
In them Divine resemblance, and such grace
The hand that formd them on thir shape hath pourd.
Paradise Lost, Book IV, John Milton
the way back is blocked by an angel with a blade of fire
and our own thoughts are barred by our misery and pain
there are no words to call it back to mind …
Children
utterly careless of time
sitting bare-arsed
and unaware
on dips of
damp grass
think of the first rest
in a warm afternoon of play
before the longing for lemonade
while the grins
and shouts of the game
are still fresh
how can we be naked
if we do not know
what clothes are
we are children
who never yet
asked
why
… except perhaps seen by the wise eyes of a blind puritan
whispered and echoing in the ears of a deaf poetess
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