(To J.S.) Still Life, Still Life ... The High-Lights Shine Hard And Sharp On The Bottles: The Wine Stands Firmly Solid In The Glasses, Smooth Yellow Ice, Through Which There Passes The Lamp'S Bright Pencil Of Down-Struck Light. The Fruits Metallically Gleam, Globey In Their Heaped-Up Bowl, And There Are Faces Against The Night Of The Outer Room - Faces That Seem Part Of This Still, Still Life ... They've Lost Their Soul. And Amongst These Frozen Faces You Smiled, Surprised, Surprisingly, Like A Child: And Out Of The Frozen Welter Of Sound Your Voice Came Quietly, Quietly. "What About God?" You Said. "I Have Found Much To Be Said For Totality. All, I Take It, Is God: God'S All - This Bottle, For Instance ..." I Recall, Dimly, That You Took God By The Neck - God-In-The-Bottle - And Pushed Him Across: But I, Without A Moment'S Loss Moved God-In-The-Salt In Front And Shouted: "Check!"