“Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake—” “Is that the same poem?” she asked. “The same poem, yes. The ancient poem that isn’t quite forgotten yet.” “Finish it, Charles.” “—Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.” “How beautiful. What does it mean?” “That it isn’t necessary to be mortal. That we can allow ourselves to be gathered into the artifice of eternity, that we can be
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