Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste… — William Empson

All those large dreams by which men long live well

Are magic-lanterned on the smoke of hell.

Stars how much further from me fill my night.

Strange that she too should be inaccessible,

Who shares my sun. He curtains her from sight,

And but in darkness is she visible.

Your rights reach down where all owners meet, in Hell's

Pointed exclusive conclave, at earth’s centre

(Your spun farm's root still on that axis dwells);

And up, through galaxies, a growing sector.