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Ladies gentlemen, University Extension, the University of Delaware presents Robert Hill year, American poet. I'll begin with a poem called Julia's room.

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On my own time. I felt a ghost story. He went up the doctests and knocked at Julia as DA.

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It opened an ablative like cut the TIM hall. The girl was a stranger. And when he spoke to her, she could not or would not understand at all.

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She looked at him a moment, horrified. He thought, then slammed the door shut. Bewildered. He guessed while he was away. Julia must have invited

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a friend he had never known. Sometimes when she asked an old friend stay, he moved to the attic room and gave up her own.

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So he climbed the second flight. But that flaw was da, as rain drenched Bach. Julia he call, but no light flashed on Julia.

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He call down the stairwell. Grim. Whoever you off for God's sake begun. The strange woman cried from Julia's own room.

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Then he remembered, it was 50 years ago, and he melted like snow. The second poem is also in the realm of the visionary,

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disappointed by the great Irish poet James Stephens. What Thomas and Bill said in a pub. I saw God.

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Do you doubt it? Do data doubt it? I saw the all mighty man. His hand was resting on a mountain

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and he looked upon the world and all about it. I saw him planer than you see me now. You must dare to

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doubted he was not satisfied. His liquids all dissatisfied. His bed S1 on a win far out of sight behind the wells

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curve and there was light, most fearful from his forehead. And he died. That style and always wrong.

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And from the start, I was dissatisfied. He lifted up his hand. I say he heaved a dreadful hand over the spinning it.

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And I said, stay, you must not strike it. God, I'm in the way and I will never move from where I stand.

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He said, dear child, I fear that you are dead. And stayed his hand. And while we're reading from James Stephens,

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this very beautiful little incantation called little things. Little things that run and quail and die in silence and despair.

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Little things that fight and fail and fall. C, and they're all trapped and frightened little thing, the mouse, the county.

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Hear our prayer. As we forgive those done to us. The lamb, the linen and the hair. Forgive us out.

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Little creatures everywhere. I see that by chance. I have found a succession of visionary poems. And I'm going to read one familiar

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to all William Blake's great time. The Tyger, which represents rat, tiger, tiger burning bright and forest of the night.

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What immortal hand or I could frame NIH fifth asymmetry. In what distant deep sauce guys bent the fires on eyes.

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On what wings day he aspire. But the hand dare sees the fire and watch children what could twist the sinews of thy hot.

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And when I hot began to beat lot dread hand. And what grad fee? What the hammer, what the chain in what finished reside brain,

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what the AnVIL, what? Dead grass. There is deadly terrorist caught when the stars through down their spears and water

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have him or that he is, did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the lamb? Make the tiger,

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tiger burning bright in the forest of the night. What a model hand or I, dataframe knife fearful symmetry.

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That is a terrible vision. But now we turn. To homesick vision. This is another mystic poet as Blake was.

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This is Henry IV on, in the 17th century. Looking back toward the spiritual beauty of his childhood days

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in a poem called The Three. Happy those. I'll start again to treat happy those early days when

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I shined in my angel infancy. Before I understood this play, appointed for my second rates are taught myself fancy,

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odd, but a white celestial thought. And yet I had not walked about a mile or two from my first love. And looking back at that shot space,

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could see a glimpse of his bright faith. Went on some gilded Cloud, Flower. My Gazing so dwell and now, and it knows WCAG,

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Laura's spy some shadows of eternity. Before I taught my tongue to wound my conscience with a sinful sound. Or had the black ah,

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to dispense a several, several, send every step. But felt through all this fleshly dress. Right shoe div everlasting this.

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Oh, how I long to travel back and fed again that ancient track that I might want small reach that plane where first I left my glorious train.

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From whence the enlightened spirit sees that shady city of palm trees. But my soul The too much stays drunk and staggers in the way.

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Such men, a forward motion, love. But I buy it. Backwards. Steps would move. And when this dust falls to the n

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in that data came return. In the words of another great mystic poet. We have the end of that, Jen and they completed lie.

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And the solution of all in the love of God. This is by Judge inhibit. The poem called love. Love, bad may welcome.

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Yet my soul drew back guilty of dust and thin. But quick. I love observing me go slack.

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For my first entrance in, drew nearer to me sweetly questioning if I lacked anything a guest, I answered whether it be here.

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Love said, usually he ie, the unkind, ungrateful. My dear, I cannot look on a lot of took my hand and smiling did reply.

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Who made the eyes? But I truth Lord, but I have mod them. Let my shame go

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whether death, where does deserve. And now you Not says Love, who bought the blame? My idea. And when I said,

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you must Downs is loud and taste my meat. So I did sit and eat. Now I'm going to read from Shakespeare's great sonnet sequence.

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One of the so-called penitential sun is again one who is wary of wilderness. He compares the SD line to the fading mentioned.

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That is a fading mentioned. And the soul is not taken care of. For cell the center of my simple, my sinful, these rebel powers array.

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Why does thou pine within and suffered a painting that outward walls so costly, gay? Why so large cough. Having so shorter leaf,

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does thou upon nine fading mentioned spin, show worms, inheritors of this excess heat up that charge is

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this diabetes and then so live thou upon thy servants loss. And let that pine to aggravate I store by TMZ divine in

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selling hours of jobs within the Fed without the rich no more. So shout thou feed on dead, that he'd Zan Men.

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And death once dead. There's no more dying then. Before we leave this mood, I'd like to read to other files.

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The lesbian paid one by Sir Walter Raleigh, philosophical poem. Give me my scallop shell of quiet. My staff of faith to walk upon,

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my scrip of joy and model diet, my bottle of salvation. My gown of glory hopes to gauge. And thus, I'll take my pilgrimage.

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Blood must be my body's bomber. No other bomb will there be given wow, supply. So like quiet, common,

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traveling towards the land that heaven, over the silvery mountains. Where spring the negative fountains. There will I kiss the bowl of

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bliss and drink mine everlasting fill up on every Milken hill. My soul will be a drive, a fall. But after it with this, No mom.

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And the same poets conclusion, which is found in the town the day after his death. He was, as you know,

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executed by James, the First of England. Even touch his time that takes in trust you. Jaws are all we have and pages but with ETH and dust,

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who in the dark and silent grave and we have land at all our ways, shuts up the story of days. But for MSUD, this grave,

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this does my God. She raised me out. I try. And we'll conclude with a poem,

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a very different kind. Veggies is a passer-by about ship. Whether a splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,

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leaning across the bosom of the edge and West. The fear is no sea rising nor sky clouding, wither away, fair over and what they acquit.

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Soon windows all our veils of breath. When skies are cold and mist inhalers failing. Well, thou glide on the blue Pacific.

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Arrest and his doma haven asleep. Thy white sails failing. Hi there before the, in the country that well thou knowest

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already arrived or inhaling the odorous air. I watched the Andhra unerringly whether outgoing an ANCA queen of the strains shipping their eye sales

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for awnings spread by mass bear. No result from the foaming R3 to the snow cat. Grand is p is o the feather,

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it becomes more fair than thou sow up, right? So stately and still allow standards. And yet oh, splendid. Chip on Hales and nameless.

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I know not. If aiming offense a, I write a divine that thou has to purpose, joyful, encourage blameless.

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The iPod is short and a happier land than mine. But for all I have given the beauty enough is done as thou has slammed with trim,

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decal and sprouting from the proud nostril curve of the proud line. In the offing scatters phone. I went light sails crowding.