Why, when you enter the room, does my heart br turn warm and red, and all those other words br grow muffled, as under snow? Why do leaf veins br seem to swell with green blood, and the forms br of all things become rounder and aglow? Why br do the shadow and the echo gain such sudden br substance; why does water seem to flow br more slowly, birds to consider more closely br the cadences of their songs? Why is there br sudden, gratuitous artistry in the dried sloe, br the crow-feather, the sunlight and cedar cone? br Why does the pulse of all run cold when I turn br to go? When I step over the rod, why does a poem br fall from me like a child of Arianrhod?br br Giles Watsonbr br