(for Andrew Cooper)
He looked upon the Great Trinomial—
The ladder toward a different paradise—
And didn’t shout: “I am Sir William Gull!”
All of his words were frozen in an ice
Through which no effort, though redoubled twice,
Could force them. He had nothing then to say
To everything. Such moments are not nice
And do not offer lovely games to play.
Still, Gull existed for this moment: day
And heavy night were finally made one
In this thrice-dreadful, thrice-adored display,
More blinding than that petty fraud, the Sun.
In that brief time, eternity was eyed—
And all Gull’s future crimes were justified.