Few things of sweetness append to me at any time. Most recently I was paralysed with illness and the deepest interest was in the slow tides of fever which I could feel rolling from one side of my body to another.
Walking on Bidston hill in the evening, a woman had thrown particles of food upon the stone path, bordered by trees, and Crows (or maybe Rooks?) had gathered in ever branch, black on the shadows of the black trees, paper cut-outs against the slow gloom and the band of city lights on the horizon which cut the boughs.
And none of that would count very well towards Calibans "sweet airs", I have little sweetness in me, for few things of beauty append to me and sweetness not being my policy I fear I lack the capacity to add these visions much vigour, but I have done what I could.
The momentary restoration of those we loved. A vision of those that were lost at sea waiting calmly beneath the waves.
Good memories of bad souls. Caliban dandled on Sycorax's knee. Given newts to play with.
The Phoenix Throne amidst the glowing trees of Ind, which hold their fruit like jewels. And those shimmering palaces glowing like the heads of curling flowers, pennants burning as the striped backs of basking snakes.
Clouds opening to show a lamp-specked carriage ride across the sea, drawn by silent horses, night-black against the dark, visible only from the Eld-light of the dashing wheels which drew across the rolling surf as a matron cuts the pastry of a pie all curled.
Stars like jewels in a pillowcase, peeping like a child through fingers.
Lightning like a bleeding eye, like a blow struck against an effigy of gold which, when scarred, does bleed and issue forth great gouts of silver mercury and red gold which drench the ground as rain.
A great city of lights burnishing the shadow of the horizon. It does glitter and charm w' wonderous grace as to be a very city for the Tigers of the Dawn and their rough multitude, pulling at the curtains of the night as if to pull them to the Seas floor.
Fine girls as glowing as christmas and as happy as hens, sitting like little queens on great eggs.
And of such eggs, why they were gilded like the summer sun and shot through w' veins and channels of damascene and pearl like maps of rivers or ink running from a page too freshly stampt.
And I saw a land composed of the freedom riches made, and was as if the streets were a river of sky and mean flocking like birds, going wherever they would.
That whole nation were as clear as glass and as open as mountaintops.
The shell of sea-turtles, very smooth and Wise, and I did dream I stroke'd em' and made much of their learned smoothness.
The sea-worms also. The waves-orchid, flower men of Juno's bower. Most gracile and tractomorphic tentacles, fit to dance morris maypole at a very Salt Spring!
A river of the rainbowest fish and the did tickle my feet and made much of me and game me fine watches, seven each, with hands like suns rays and new pairs of shoes. Shoes nonpareil!