And as promised, I'll finish with this poem, "Silverchest."
Short "Silverchest."
"Unafraid is what we were, I think,
and then afraid, though it mostly seemed otherwise.
I opened my eyes, I saw, I closed, I shut them.
The usual morning glories twist up through banks
of gone-wild-by-now holly, crickets for song,
morphos for their glamour, which is quiet, blue and quiet.
You, the dark that nothing, not even the light, displaces.
You, who have been the single leaf that won't
stop tossing, among the others.
For you."
Thanks
[APPLAUSE]
Thanks for staying in the room.
Thanks, that's great.
[LAUGHTER]