Endymion shrieks, For what is beauty if hidden, hoarded, if posed in youthful sleep? None forever in plump symmetries Held a stone and cast it thus Upon the cool and clouded lakes Below thunder, and sought The bridled stain that looms From under. But there, there In fragile dispurpose cut Below the eye - the frailty - The red gleam indistinguishable From the fly that laps upon it, Indistinguishable from the crust That makes a scar, ripped From vain slumber to bend Before the wind, to break Before the white lightning hand That takes each our pink clays And molds a chasm For the drain of days.