Tempests. You have held them off so long, my love, my darling. But the lamb cries, and I am powerless, even here. I am lifted to realms of light to fiddler’s green, to qui tollis peccata. This time Samual Barber. Next. Who knows. Britten: what mortals forgive. We will mend.

Saw her in a dream, asked her if she knew of you. Yes, she said, I know my pain. I asked you first, I said, you turned me down.

It disturbs me, you know, you must know. that you can capture me without any appeal to this monster, that you have nothing to do with it, that we are as ignorant, in our bliss, as Eve and Adam, and that my muses have fallen so silent.