Where the gale winds blew they crouched low
where too much horizon leered they fashioned a circle
and drew its boundaries tight

and the sky split whitely open
like a bruised fruit

and Richard Dadd having killed his father Robert Dadd
(who was the Devil)
stared for hours at the white sun entranced

“Father” he said finally “My father is the sun”

Honeywarm coals of gratitude flowed
upon his trembling head