him or her, as taking me to a country
far high sunny where i knew to be happy
was only a moment, a puttering flame in the fireplace
but burning all the misery to cinders
If it could, a sift of dross like that we mourn for
as caskets sink with horrifying blandness
Into a roar, into smoke, into light, into almost nothing
The not quite nothing i praise it and i write it.
-Edwin Morgan
