And there could I marvel my birthday / Away but the weather turned around. And the true / Joy of the long dead child sang burning / In the sun.

Under and round him go / Flounders, gulls, on their cold, dying trails, / Doing what they are told, / Curlews aloud in the congered waves / Work at their ways to death, / And the rhymer in the long tongued room, / Who tolls his birthday bell, / Toils towards the ambush of his wounds; / Herons, steeple stemmed, bless.

My birthday began with the water- / Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name / Above the farms and the white horses / And I rose / In rainy autumn / And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.

"She spoke, there on the rotting stairs in the middle of the poor house, a frightening rush of love words; from her mouth, at his ear, endearments were burned out. Hurry! hurry! Every moment is being killed. Love, adored, dear, run back and whistle to me, open the door, shout my name, lay me down."