The poems mark successive stages in a growth cycle. They lose nothing due to their being abstracted from their setting. 21 Always where lightning connects brawn with brain and the tower falls, smashing masses beneath it struck griefless and dumb, there help will come. We need but that one distinct moment's exertion of will towards ourselves, at no cost to this thing or that eye. Thereafter comes laughter. Lie in the grass of a summer's day, seaside contentment heavy on lips and in limbs; feel those intemperate breezes rich in justice on skin. Then, when the sails appear, white on your mind's tested horizon, you begin to count the days left, check baggage, con future needs and wait the storm out with a smile. Oh that these days have so much within them that reeks of vile superstition! Not a sensation goes by but we cause it, more shallow, less fruitful. Barren stretches of wishing we disown when the tenants, our moods, pay lip service in terms of rent. We shriek our defiance. All is not lost. *