It seems as if I've been reading this
muddy stuff now for 45 years, and I
probably have too : Swinburne and
Rossetti, so much schlock. Those
heavily-laden beasts of burdened-
with-words catafalques the dead are
set upon. Velveteen covers on lamps
which won't shine. Polished metal
globes on the ends of posts and tines.
I can hear it all now in my sleep. They
died a long time ago and are dead still.
The double-level word-pun froth of
that one : 'dead-still' : delights.
I can no longer head straightaway into
some lamp-lit darkness just for learning
which words to say. Shibboleths like
that just make me shiver. The long line
of Pre-Raphaelite maidens have taken
a shine to me.