The Angel and the Author, and others

where there was just one man and just one woman, and clothes grew on a fig tree

Blind Children playing in a World of Darkness.
May not we be but blind children, suggests the poet, living in a world of darkness—laughing, weeping, loving, dying—knowing nothing of the wonder round us?

The ghosts about us, with their god-like faces, it might be good to look at them.

But these poor, pale-faced spooks, these dull-witted, table-thumping spirits: it would be sad to think that of such was the kingdom of the Dead.

If only we had not lost our Tails!