Beside dear Beatrice,
striding ‘tween stops
ag na tithe tábhairne,
stepping in from 
Fellow’s Square,
dead in our tracks,
heads back,
eyes drawn upwards,
stack over stack,
open-mouthed of
Empyrean awe,
and advancing 
entranced,
row by row as
the Long Room
lows us.
Above, I swear 
I see W.B.’s 
circling owls,
 	O firste moevyng!
and crystalline shells
in layered movement,
pagan proof
within this Trinity,
the face of the
Unmoved Mover.
Doubling back,
we duck away from
rare spring sun,
and tuck in 
to O’Neill’s,
to wait for rain; 
and when 
light sheets
blur Liffey’s face,
wet static white noise
rippling, ringing,
	of hevenyssh melodie,
we’ll stroll again,
tippling, winding,
adjacent strings in
intemperate harmony.