Stars how much further from me fill my night. Strange that she too should be inaccessible, Who shares my sun… — William Empson

All those large dreams by which men long live well

Are magic-lanterned on the smoke of hell.

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.

Liberal hopefulness

Regards death as a mere border to an improving picture.