Портрет художника в юности

           Hebegantobeatthefrayedendofhisashplantagainstthebaseofapillar.HadCranlynotheardhim?Yethecouldwait.Thetalkabouthimceasedforamomentandasofthissfellagainfromawindowabove.Butnoothersoundwasintheairandtheswallowswhoseflighthehadfollowedwithidleeyesweresleeping.

           Shehadpassedthroughthedusk.Andthereforetheairwassilentsaveforonesofthissthatfell.Andthereforethetonguesabouthimhadceasedtheirbabble.Darknesswasfalling.

           Darknessfallsfromtheair.

           Atremblingjoy,lambentasafaintlight,playedlikeafairyhostaroundhim.Butwhy?Herpassagethroughthedarkeningairortheversewithitsblackvowelsanditsopeningsound,richandlutelike?

           Hewalkedawayslowlytowardsthedeepershadowsattheendofthecolonnade,beatingthestonesoftlywithhissticktohidehisreveryfromthestudentswhomhehadleft:andallowedhismindtosummonbacktoitselftheageofDowlandandByrdandNash.

           Eyes,openingfromthedarknessofdesire,eyesthatdimmedthebreakingeast.Whatwastheirlanguidgracebutthesoftnessofchambering?AndwhatwastheirshimmerbuttheshimmerofthescumthatmantledthecesspoolofthecourtofaslobberingStuart.