for the moment occupied by the poem, which its originator read in its place of origin, was so much greater than us, it belonged to infinity, and how could we, so young and no cleverer than three sparrows, receive it? We could not, and at any rate I squirmed as he read. It was almost more than I could endure. A joke would have been apposite, at least to lend the everyday life in which we were trapped some kind of form. Oh the beauty of it, how to deal with it? How to meet it?
