“I never saw a man who looked, with such a wistful eye, Upon that little tent of blue, Which prisoners call the sky, And at every drifting cloud that went, With sails of silver by,” (I)

“I have of late–but wherefore I know not–lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet to me what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me; no, nor woman neither…” (II)

“While Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers
Turn around and say good morning to the night
For unless they see the sky
But they can’t and that is why
They know not if it’s dark outside or light

This Broadway’s got
It’s got a lot of songs to sing
If I knew the tunes I might join in
I’ll go my way alone
Grow my own, my own seeds shall be sown, in New York City” (III)

H-E knew the layers of sky, sidewalk, metal bars, bars barring the interlacing or intersecting or cross-fertilizations of Mannahattas, were mind-forged red tape. She knew how red tape could be melted, snapped, by blue sky, crisp, and how night at 9 East 71st Street, on satin sheets, was a night in a gold-barred birdcage.

She could hardly tweet, let alone sing sweet.

(I) Ballad Of Reading Gaol, third stanza, Oscar Wilde;

(II) Hamlet, act II scene II, Shakespeare;

(III) Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters, Elton John and Bernie Taupin.