Henry Purcell
Victoria Street, London

                             Henry Purcell

Have fair fallen, O fair, fair have fallen, so dear
To me, so arch-especial a spirit as heaves in
      Henry Purcell,
An age is now since passed, since parted;
      with the reversal
Of the outward sentence low lays him,
      listed to a heresy, here.

Not mood in him nor meaning, proud fire
      or sacred fear,
Or love or pity or all that sweet notes not his
     might nursle:
It is the forged feature finds me; it is the rehearsal
Of own, of abrupt sel there so thrusts on, so throngs
     the ear.

Let him oh! with his air of angels then lift me, lay me!
      only I'll
Have an eve to the sakes of him, quaint moonmarks,
      to his pelted plumage under
Wings: so some great stormfowl, whenever he has
      walked his while

The thunder-purple seabeach plumed
     purple-of-thunder
If a wuthering of his palmy snow-pinions scatter
     a colossal smile
Off him, but meaning motion fans fresh our wits
     with wonder.

                                                  Gerard Manley Hopkins

Spotlight on London 2000