Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,And ye that on the sands with printless footDo chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly himWhen he comes back; you demi-puppets thatBy moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastimeIs to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoiceTo hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,Weak masters though ye be, I have bedim?dThe noontide sun, cal?d forth the mutinous winds,And?twixt the green sea and the azured vaultSet roaring war: to the dread rattling thunderHave I given fire and rifted Jov?s stout oakWith his own bolt; the strong-based promontoryHave I made shake and by the spurs pluc?d upThe pine and cedar: graves at my commandHave waked their sleepers, oped, and let?em forthBy my so potent art. But this rough magicI here abjure, and, when I have requiredSome heavenly music, which even now I do,To work mine end upon their senses thatThis airy charm is for, ?ll break my staff,Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,And deeper than did ever plummet sound?ll drown my book.
The sun is rising through a yellow, howling wind. Time for breakfast. Inside the trailer now, broiling bacon and frying eggs with good appetite, I hear the sand patter like rain against the metal walls and brush across the windowpanes. A fine silt accumulates beneath the door and on the window ledge. The trailer shakes in a sudden gust. All one to me -- sandstorm or sunshine I am content, so long as I have something to eat, good health, the earth to take my stand on, and light behind the eyes to see by.