Your rights reach down where all owners meet, in Hell's Pointed exclusive conclave, at earth's centre... (Your spun farm's root still on that axis dwells); And up, through galaxies, a growing sector.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Until, on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave. Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.... The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave. They buried us without shroud or coffin And in August the barley grew up out of the grave.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
The dull conclave of crows'-footed faces Twitches as the man with one dollar enters;... It moves a soilured delicate hand, as if Displaying a marketable emotion on a string.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »