Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders
This many summers in a sea...
Farewell, he’s dead.
Papa, you and I have lost him. He’ll never race across the fields or pack his creel or kiss a girl on the bridge. The plague has killed him.
Was it you who wanted a new cap?
Now you’ll have a cap of dirt.
I throw my heart against the flint of time. O sun, burn your great spheres... I importune death a while. The passing of so small a thing should make a crack at least. Stained with his own blood...
Grey yelping dogs chase a coach through London fog:
Fog drips from coach lamps, from trees, iron railings.
Someone in the fog screams and