Shelley—"The pale purple even." Not pearl-purple. Pearl-purple was what you saw. The sky to the east after sunset above Greffington Edge. Take out "pale," and "pearl-purple evening" was your own.
The poem was coming by bits at a time. She could feel the rest throbbing behind it, an unreleased, impatient energy.
Her mother looked in at the door. "What are you doing it for, Mary?"
"Oh—for nothing."
"Then for pity's sake come down into the warm room and do it there.
You'll catch cold."
She hated the warm room.
The poem would be made up of many poems. It would last a long time, through the winter and on into the spring. As long as it lasted she would be happy. She would be free from the restlessness and the endless idiotic reverie of desire.
IX.
"From all blindness of heart; from pride, vain-glory and hypocrisy; from envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness,
"Good Lord, deliver us."