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Azrael by Sylvia Townsend Warner, 1977
Who chooses the music, turns the page,
waters the geraniums on the window ledge?
Who proxies my hand,
puts on the mourning ring in lieu of the diamond?
Who winds the trudging clock, who tears flimsy the empty date off calendars?
Who widow-hoods my senses, lest they should meet the morning's cheat defenceless?
Who valets me at nightfall, undresses me of another day, puts it tidily and finally away,
And lets in darkness to befriend my eyelids like an illusory caress?
I called him Sorrow when he first came, but Sorrow is too narrow a name;
And though he has attended me all this long while, Habit will not do. Habit is servile.
He, inaudible, governs my days, impalpable, impels my hither and thither.
I am his to command. My times are in his hand.
Once in a dream I called him Azrael.
* This is a limited edition (number 123 of 200 copies) and was added to Azrael's Library in May of 2005.*
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