We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
And death shall have no dominion. Dead men naked they shall be one With the man in the wind and the west moon; When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone, They shall have stars at elbow and foot; Though they go mad they shall be sane, Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion. Under the windings of the sea They lying long shall not die windily; Twisting on racks when sinews give way, Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break; Faith in their hands shall snap in two, And the unicorn evils run them through; Split all ends up they shan't crack; And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion. No more may gulls cry at their ears Or waves break loud on the seashores; Where blew a flower may a flower no more Lift its head to the blows of the rain; Though they be mad and dead as nails, Heads of the characters hammer through daisies; Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.
Be careful what you wish for - you just might get it. That might be the reader's digest version of the poem. Or it might be a retelling of a genie-in-bottle story I once heard, something about a man who asked the genie for wealth and fame and eternal life. A thousand years later the genie offered him another wish, and he asked "kill me."
Here's a line written in pebbles embedded on a sidewalk in Pacific Grove, California: "Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads." Maybe the estuary Dylan looked out at, the gulls and sea clouds and 'sheep white hollow farms' of a home that pulsed in him more emphatically than his own blood, maybe all that fragile transient immortal stuff dwarfed, for him, the fearsome constructions of heaven and hell that he put on the shelf in the first two stanzas. Maybe it should.