True,—we can glow at Homer's lay, enraptured hang o'er Pindar's lyre, Start at thy pencil's deathless ray, Thy breathing marble's force admire,...

‘Garn with ya. Fair suck of the sauce bottle’, countered Sid. ‘Look all ya gotta do is knock a little bit of the tube out and it won′t wink anymore. Get a yonnie and give it a little tap.’

Within a thicket I reposed; when round / I ruffled up fall'n leaves in heap; and found, / Let fall from heaven, a sleep interminate.

The shifting shapes mimicked the dilemma of the nearly clueless mystery of the Higgins Grove murders. As soon as the picture formed into something recognizable, it morphed into something else.