"--See with cross'd arms they sit -- ah! happy crew. The fire is going out and no one rings..For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings. A fly is in the milk-pot -- must he die by a humane society?--" Often, Tate finds himself mumbling the workings of Keats aloud, wondering just what this poet was smoking in his time. Unaware that his solitude has been corrupted by another, Tate keeps his back to them, oblivious to his surroundings, while the words remain rolled on the tip of his tongue.








