A wood near Athens. A Fairy speaks.

Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favors,
In those freckles live their savors:
I must go seek some dew-drops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I’ll be gone;
Our queen and all her elves come here anon.
Impossible haste, loci unfelt, clubbing.
A sphere where to collide in fear
Titania laughs, Schachter cries,
Art is not just queer, but vital and dead.
A cry in the dark, a page that cannot be turned
But what are we doing here
When the only one that matter
Is that who says the unsayable
Art minions, low demons
Ungrateful grace, misplaced breath
In the name of the Son
Just a man.

Second Part is Next