Blake’s buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow. Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.

Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards his colleague.

Haines is gone, he said.

Is he?

I was showing him Jubainville’s book. He’s quite enthusiastic, don’t you know, about Hyde’s Lovesongs of Connacht. I couldn’t bring him in to hear the discussion. He’s gone to Gill’s to buy it.

Bound thee forth, my booklet, quick

To greet the callous public.

Writ, I ween, ’twas not my wish

In lean unlovely English.