What do we know but that we face one another in this place?

Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.

Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enameling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Whence had they come The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived?

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.

The falcon cannot hear the falconer