Christina Rossetti’s “Gone Forever” is a remarkably concentrated meditation on time, mortality, memory, and the painful discrepancy between life’s recurrent beauty and the irrecoverability of particular living things. Its language is plain, its natural images immediately recognizable, and its emotional movement apparently simple: a rose blooms, a skylark rises and sings, and both will disappear. Yet Rossetti transforms this familiar truth into an intensely felt lyric of human bereavement. The poem does not merely observe that flowers fade and birds die; it considers the peculiar anguish of consciousness, which can anticipate loss even in the instant of delight and which later returns to cherished places only to discover that neither place nor season can restore what has vanished. In its poised fusion of songlike grace and severe insight, “Gone Forever” exemplifies Rossetti’s extraordinary ability to make spiritual and philosophical questions emotionally immediate.

The poem belongs to the Victorian world in which Rossetti wrote, a period profoundly preoccupied with death, doubt, faith, and change. Nineteenth-century Britain witnessed dramatic industrial expansion, urban growth, scientific discovery, imperial ambition, and social upheaval. These developments brought new forms of confidence but also new forms of alienation. The natural landscapes invoked by poets increasingly stood in tension with the transformed environments of modern life. A flower on its “parent tree,” a bird ascending into a “broad blue sky,” and a summer bower may seem timeless images, but in a culture increasingly aware of machinery, pollution, crowded cities, and historical acceleration, such images could carry special emotional force. They offered not a naïve escape from history but a poignant register in which to confront the vulnerability of beauty itself.

Victorian poetry frequently returns to the question of whether nature consoles human beings or merely mirrors their mortality. Earlier Romantic writers had made nature a source of imaginative renewal, moral instruction, and visionary intensity. Rossetti inherits this tradition, particularly its affection for birdsong, flowers, sky, and seasonal atmosphere. But her poem revises Romantic confidence. The rose and the lark are not enduring emblems of a permanently restorative nature. They are individual creatures, subject to decline and disappearance. Summer will return; morning will return; other flowers and birds will appear. What will not return is “the same bird and flower.” This distinction between recurring natural forms and lost individual presences gives the poem its aching precision. Rossetti does not deny renewal, but she refuses to let renewal erase grief.

The poem’s opening apostrophe, “O happy rose-bud,” establishes a voice both affectionate and admonitory. Apostrophe, the direct address to an absent, inanimate, or nonhuman being, allows Rossetti to make the rosebud seem almost like a child or a young person whose happiness is touching precisely because it is unguarded. The word “happy” is immediately complicated by the speaker’s superior knowledge. The rosebud is “blooming,” rooted “Upon thy parent tree,” an image that suggests origin, dependence, shelter, and generational continuity. Yet the speaker abruptly challenges its apparent confidence: “Nay, thou art too presuming.” The rebuke is startling because it attributes pride or innocence to a flower. It also reveals the speaker’s own position: one who cannot simply behold beauty without imagining its destruction.

Rossetti’s personification is therefore more than decorative. By calling the rosebud “presuming,” she dramatizes a human tendency to mistake present flourishing for security. The flower’s beauty appears secure because it is visibly alive, because it is attached to a sustaining tree, and because blooming seems like an affirmation of life. But the poem insists that vitality contains its own limit. The phrase “soon the earth entombing” introduces the grave into a scene of blossom. “Entombing” is a solemn and deliberately human word. Flowers do not ordinarily receive tombs; people do. The verb makes the earth not merely the ground in which organic matter returns but an active sepulchral force. It absorbs beauty into death, while the adjective “chill” and the noun “damp” make that process physically palpable. Rossetti’s mortality is not abstract; it has temperature, texture, and weight.

The rose’s fate is described through the phrase “Thy faded charms.” “Charms” may refer to physical loveliness, but it also suggests a power of enchantment. The rose has delighted the eye and perhaps exercised a spell over the observer. Its fading thus represents not simply botanical change but the dissolution of that spell. Rossetti carefully brings together aesthetic language and funerary language: charm, fading, earth, entombment, chill, consumption. Such juxtapositions enact the poem’s central argument that beauty is never wholly separable from its fragility. Indeed, the very intensity with which beauty is perceived may arise from the knowledge that it cannot be held. The flower moves the speaker because it is lovely, but also because loveliness is exposed to time.

The second apostrophe shifts from rooted life to airborne freedom: “O happy skylark springing / Up to the broad blue sky.” The lark has a long poetic history. In English poetry it often signifies spontaneous music, aspiration, freedom, and an ecstatic relation to the heavens. Percy Bysshe Shelley’s skylark is a figure of near-superhuman joy, an “unbodied” source of song whose purity rebukes human sadness. Rossetti knowingly invokes this literary inheritance through her own image of an ascending and singing bird. But where Shelley’s bird seems almost released from bodily limitation, Rossetti insists upon the lark’s creatureliness. It is “too fearless” in its winging and “too gladsome” in its singing because it, too, is destined to lie silent. Her lark does not transcend death; its flight makes mortality more poignant.

The movement from “springing” upward to “lie” downward is especially powerful. Rossetti condenses an entire arc of life into opposed bodily gestures. The lark rises into expansiveness, motion, light, and music; it will later lie where music has ceased. “Where no sweet notes are ringing” avoids elaborate description of death, but its negative formulation is devastating. The silence is defined through the absence of what had made the bird itself meaningful to the listener. The phrase does not simply say that the lark will be dead; it imagines a world deprived of its song. In this way, Rossetti shows how loss is experienced relationally. Death means not only the end of a life but the removal of a sound, a presence, a pattern of delight from the shared world.

Sound is crucial throughout “Gone Forever,” even though the poem’s deepest destination is silence. The soft openings, “O happy rose-bud” and “O happy skylark,” carry a tenderness that makes the subsequent warnings feel intimate rather than merely didactic. Repeated participles—“blooming,” “consuming,” “springing,” “winging,” “singing,” “ringing”—create an impression of continuing activity. Grammatically, these words hold life in process; emotionally, they seem to prolong the moments the poem knows it cannot preserve. Yet the repeated flow of sound also makes the poem’s warnings inescapable. The verbal music cannot halt the movement toward fading, entombment, and silence. Rossetti’s lyric art performs a paradox: poetry gives duration to what it laments as transient, while never pretending that verbal preservation is identical to living return.

The final movement turns explicitly from the rose and lark to human beings: “And through life’s shine and shower / We shall have joy and pain.” This shift is essential. The poem is not a detached nature sketch, nor is it simply a moral lesson extracted from flowers and birds. The natural images have prepared the reader to recognize the human condition. “Shine and shower” evokes weather, but it also becomes a compact metaphor for alternating fortune. Human life, like the seasons, includes brightness and rain; unlike the flower and bird, however, human beings carry memory and expectation. They know that joy will be mixed with pain, and they repeatedly seek vanished forms of happiness in the scenes associated with them.

The phrase “we shall have joy and pain” is measured, almost proverbial. Rossetti does not claim that life is only suffering, and this restraint matters. Joy is real in the poem: the rose does bloom, the lark does sing, summer and morning do offer beauty. The poem’s emotional power depends on its willingness to acknowledge such pleasures. A more relentlessly bleak poem would not produce the same sense of loss because it would have too little to lose. Rossetti instead places joy and pain beside one another as permanent companions. She does not sentimentalize pleasure into permanence, nor does she make sorrow an excuse to deny delight. Her vision is tragic in the classical sense: happiness is genuine, but it exists under conditions that make its eventual ending inevitable.

“The summer bower” and “the morning hour” are richly traditional images of freshness, intimacy, fertility, and hope. A bower is a sheltered leafy retreat, associated in pastoral literature with love, leisure, and natural abundance. Morning is the daily emblem of beginning. Rossetti’s choice of these scenes heightens the poem’s sadness because they should be places where one expects life to return. Summer and morning promise recurrence; they seem to refute despair through their cyclical arrival. But the speaker’s response is not uncomplicated consolation. In these very places of renewal, “We still shall look in vain / For the same bird and flower.” The seasonal world can reproduce conditions of beauty without restoring the objects that once made those conditions personally meaningful.

This is one of Rossetti’s most subtle insights into mourning. Grief is often intensified not in barren places but in places that remain beautiful after a loss. The returning spring, the familiar garden, the morning sky, or a bird’s song may become painful precisely because they evoke an absent person, creature, or former self. The word “same” is central. It does not deny that another rose may bloom or another lark may sing. Rather, it insists upon singularity. The lost object cannot be replaced by an equivalent specimen. Human attachment is not satisfied by categories. A new flower is not that flower; a new song is not that song. Rossetti thereby resists the easy consolation that nature’s abundance should compensate for individual death.

The title, “Gone Forever,” intensifies this resistance. Its blunt finality stands in productive tension with the poem’s seasonal imagery. Nature may repeat patterns, but the particular being mourned is permanently absent. This theme connects Rossetti’s poem to the elegiac tradition, though “Gone Forever” is not an elegy for a named individual. Its lack of specific biographical detail becomes a strength, permitting the rose and lark to gather many possible losses: the death of a loved one, the passing of childhood, the end of a relationship, the loss of faith in uncomplicated happiness, or the recognition of one’s own mortality. The poem speaks from a generalized “we,” inviting readers into a shared condition without dissolving the sharpness of private grief.

Rossetti’s biographical circumstances help illuminate, though they need not reduce, this preoccupation with loss. Born into a gifted Anglo-Italian family of artists and writers, she grew up in a household shaped by literary ambition, religious seriousness, political displacement, and economic uncertainty. Her brother Dante Gabriel Rossetti became a central figure among the Pre-Raphaelites, while Christina herself developed a poetic voice at once sensuous, devotional, and psychologically exact. She experienced recurring ill health and lived amid the deaths and emotional difficulties that marked many Victorian families. Her religious commitments, especially her association with Anglican devotional culture, gave her poetry a language of renunciation and spiritual hope. Yet the strength of “Gone Forever” lies partly in the fact that it does not force consolation upon its reader.

Many of Rossetti’s religious poems look toward resurrection, divine mercy, or an eternal life beyond earthly change. Here, however, the poem remains deliberately concentrated on the world of temporal absence. It does not state that the bird or flower will be recovered in heaven, nor does it explicitly redirect the speaker’s desire toward God. This silence should not be mistaken for unbelief. Rather, it reveals Rossetti’s seriousness about the emotional reality of loss. Religious faith, in her work, does not necessarily cancel grief; it may require an even more honest acknowledgment that earthly life cannot provide final possession. The poem’s refusal of easy reassurance gives it unusual integrity. It allows mourning to be mournful.

At the same time, the poem can be read within a Christian framework of humility. The rose is “too presuming”; the lark is “too fearless.” These words suggest that creatures who appear to inhabit the present without anxiety may be interpreted by the human observer as symbols of unwarranted confidence. In biblical and devotional traditions, human beings are often warned against presuming upon worldly stability. Life is compared to grass, flowers, vapor, or passing shadow. Rossetti’s poem participates in this tradition of memento mori, the artistic reminder that death is inevitable. But it does so without harsh moralism. The rose and lark are not blamed for being joyful. Their happiness remains beautiful. The warning falls more heavily upon the speaker and reader, who must learn to see beauty without imagining that beauty can be owned.

Philosophically, “Gone Forever” explores the relationship between impermanence and value. One possible response to transience is to conclude that temporary things are worthless. Rossetti does not take that path. Her careful attention to the “broad blue sky,” “sweet notes,” “summer bower,” and “morning hour” shows that temporary beauty matters deeply. Another response is to insist that recurrence defeats loss: flowers bloom again, birds sing again, mornings return. Rossetti rejects this simplification as well. Recurrence is not restoration. Her thought resembles philosophical reflections on the irreversibility of time, in which every moment becomes inaccessible as soon as it passes. Yet the poem is not a dry statement of temporal philosophy. It gives that insight a sensory body, allowing readers to feel the wound of irreversibility in fading petals and silenced song.

A comparison with John Keats is also illuminating. Keats’s poetry repeatedly confronts the tension between transient human life and seemingly enduring art or birdsong. In “Ode to a Nightingale,” the speaker imagines the bird’s music as escaping the limits of individual mortality, even though the poem finally complicates that fantasy. Rossetti is less tempted by transcendence through aesthetic experience. Her skylark’s song is expressly mortal, and the observer does not dissolve into imaginative transport. Similarly, while Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn” contemplates art’s capacity to preserve a permanent moment of beauty, Rossetti’s poem emphasizes the fate of living beauty in time. Her art does preserve the emotional knowledge of loss, but it does not claim to defeat loss itself.

The poem also speaks compellingly to modern readers because its insight into memory remains so recognizable. Contemporary culture often promises preservation: photographs, recordings, archives, messages, and digital traces seem to keep the past available. Yet no record can restore the living immediacy of a vanished presence. Rossetti’s “same bird and flower” names this limit with extraordinary economy. We may revisit places, replay songs, keep objects, and repeat rituals, but our longing is often directed toward something no representation can return: a prior moment of relation. The poem’s emotional truth therefore exceeds its Victorian setting. It understands that remembrance is both a form of fidelity and a source of pain.

What makes “Gone Forever” so moving is its refusal to choose between tenderness and severity. Rossetti does not mock the rosebud’s bloom or the lark’s delight; she gives them language vivid enough to make us share in their vitality. Nor does she evade the “chill damp” of death or the vain searching of memory. The poem’s emotional arc teaches no simple lesson about detachment. Instead, it suggests that to love beauty is to become vulnerable to its passing, and that this vulnerability is inseparable from our humanity. Its sorrow is disciplined rather than theatrical, but it is never cold. Beneath its calm address and polished imagery lies a profound ache: the knowledge that the world continues to offer mornings, summers, flowers, and songs, while those whom we have loved within that world may be gone forever.

In the vast and luminous firmament of twentieth-century poetry, few voices resonate with the elemental force and linguistic exuberance of Dylan Thomas. His work stands as a testament to the power of verse to excavate the hidden chambers of human experience, where the visceral collides with the cosmic, and the personal transmutes into the mythic. Among the jewels in his early canon, “Not from this anger” emerges as a particularly arresting exploration of thwarted passion, a poem that seethes with an intensity both intimate and universal. One cannot help but feel an electric thrill upon encountering its densely woven imagery, its refusal to yield easy consolations, and its unflinching gaze into the abyss of emotional anticlimax. This essay embarks on a scholarly journey through the poem’s rich terrain, illuminating its historical and cultural moorings, dissecting its masterful literary devices, unraveling its profound themes, and tracing the profound emotional currents it stirs in the reader. In doing so, we celebrate poetry’s unparalleled capacity to capture the raw pulse of existence, transforming private torment into a shared, cathartic revelation that continues to enchant and unsettle across generations.

To fully appreciate “Not from this anger,” one must first situate it within the swirling historical and cultural currents of its time. Thomas composed the poem amid the turbulent 1930s, a decade shadowed by the Great Depression’s economic despair, the gathering storms of fascism in Europe, and the lingering scars of the First World War. In Wales, his birthplace, the industrial valleys grappled with unemployment and social upheaval, while London—where the young poet sought literary fame—buzzed with modernist experimentation and bohemian rebellion. This was an era when writers turned inward, probing the psyche for meaning in a world that seemed increasingly fractured. Thomas’s early collections, emerging from notebooks filled during his adolescence in Swansea and his early adulthood in the capital, reflect this zeitgeist. Influenced by the surrealist undercurrents sweeping through European art and the lingering echoes of Romanticism, his poetry rejected the cool detachment of some contemporaries in favor of a visceral, almost bodily engagement with language. The 1930s also saw a broader cultural fascination with psychoanalysis, as Sigmund Freud’s ideas permeated intellectual circles, encouraging artists to explore the subconscious realms of desire, repression, and rage. In this context, Thomas’s work pulses with a distinctly Welsh vitality—rooted in the cadences of biblical rhetoric and the mythic landscapes of Celtic lore—yet it speaks to a generation confronting personal and collective impotence in the face of larger forces. The poem, appearing in his 1939 volume, captures this moment of prewar anxiety, where individual frustration mirrors a broader sense of stalled potential, a world “strapped by hunger” not merely literal but existential.

Biographical threads further enrich our understanding, weaving the poem into the fabric of Thomas’s own tempestuous life. Born in 1914, the poet navigated a childhood marked by his father’s scholarly influence and his mother’s nurturing warmth, experiences that instilled in him a lifelong reverence for the rhythms of the natural world and the human form. By the mid-1930s, as he revised and refined pieces like this one, Thomas was forging a path as a fiercely independent writer, often penniless and reliant on the generosity of patrons and friends. His 1937 marriage to Caitlin Macnamara introduced a passionate, volatile dynamic that would define much of his emotional landscape—marked by intense physical attraction, mutual artistic admiration, and the inevitable clashes of two strong-willed spirits. Scholars have long noted how Thomas’s relationships, including earlier romantic entanglements, informed his preoccupation with erotic tension and its aftermath. The poem’s central motif of “refusal” and its aftermath of anticlimax feels palpably autobiographical, echoing the frustrations of a young man whose desires frequently outstripped societal or personal constraints. Yet Thomas was no mere confessionalist; he alchemized these experiences into something larger, drawing on his own battles with health, finances, and inner demons to craft verses that feel both confessional and archetypal. This biographical lens reveals the poem not as isolated outburst but as part of a lifelong dialogue between vitality and decay, a theme that would culminate in later masterpieces. Enthusiasts of Thomas’s oeuvre often remark on how his life—cut short in 1953 amid legendary excesses—imbues his early work with a prophetic urgency, as if the poet sensed the fleeting nature of passion and the ever-present specter of limitation.

At the heart of “Not from this anger” lies a masterful deployment of literary devices that render its emotional landscape both vivid and disorienting. Thomas’s imagery operates on multiple planes, fusing the corporeal with the elemental in ways that defy straightforward interpretation yet compel repeated engagement. Consider the opening declaration, where anger is immediately qualified as an “anticlimax after” a “refusal” that “struck her loin.” Here, the poet employs a startling metaphor of bodily violation and failed fertility: the “lame flower” that “bent like a beast to lap the singular floods” evokes a crippled bloom in a parched terrain, personifying desire as a desperate, animalistic thirst. This surreal blending of human anatomy—loins, floods, belly—with botanical and bestial elements creates a tactile, almost grotesque vividness, drawing the reader into a sensory realm where rejection manifests as physical deformity and ecological barrenness. The “land strapped by hunger” extends this metaphor, transforming emotional starvation into a geographic desolation, a technique reminiscent of the poet’s broader habit of mapping inner states onto external vistas. Alliteration and assonance further amplify the intensity; the sibilant “singular floods” and the guttural “strapped by hunger” mimic the poem’s choked urgency, while the flowing consonants in “tendril hands I touch across / The agonized, two seas” suggest both tenderness and vast separation, the hands reaching futilely across oceanic divides of pain.

As the poem unfolds, these devices evolve into even more intricate patterns of juxtaposition and inversion. The “square of sky sags over / The circular smile tossed from lover to lover” introduces a geometric surrealism, where the heavens themselves droop in exhaustion, mirroring the speaker’s disillusionment with transient affections. The “golden ball spins out of the skies” conjures a mythic orb—perhaps an echo of celestial or erotic games—now lost to chaos, its motion conveying both playful abandon and inevitable dispersal. Repetition of the titular phrase “Not from this anger” serves as a structural anchor, a incantatory denial that builds rhythmic insistence without relying on traditional forms, underscoring the speaker’s insistence that this particular fury yields no redemptive fruit. The simile “Refusal struck like a bell under water” is particularly ingenious: it submerges sound and resonance, suggesting how rejection reverberates dully, muffled yet persistent, in the depths of the subconscious. Finally, the closing vision of “that mouth, behind the mirror, / That burns along my eyes” achieves a climactic fusion of reflection and torment. The mirror motif—common in modernist explorations of identity—here becomes a site of haunting duplication, where the beloved’s smile breeds a spectral, consuming presence that scorches the speaker’s vision. Through these devices, Thomas crafts a linguistic tapestry so densely layered that each reading uncovers new resonances, inviting the audience to inhabit the poem’s fevered dreamscape. This is poetry at its most potent: not decorative but excavatory, using language as a scalpel to probe the wounds of the heart.

The themes that course through “Not from this anger” reveal a profound meditation on the paradoxes of human desire, where creation and destruction entwine in uneasy alliance. Central is the notion of frustrated eros, a force that, far from generative, results in sterility and distortion. The “bellyful of weeds” and “tendril hands” that the speaker imagines—or fears—represent a grotesque parody of pregnancy and connection: what should be nourishment becomes invasive overgrowth, and affectionate touch morphs into something grasping and vegetal. This inversion speaks to a deeper anxiety about procreation and legacy, themes that recur in Thomas’s oeuvre as emblems of life’s precarious vitality. Hunger emerges as another dominant motif, not merely physical but metaphysical; the “land strapped by hunger” and the beast lapping “singular floods” portray desire as an insatiable void, one that societal or personal refusals only exacerbate. Isolation permeates the verse as well, embodied in the “agonized, two seas” that separate the lovers, vast expanses of emotional turbulence that no bridge of tenderness can span. The circularity of the “smile tossed from lover to lover” further critiques the commodification of affection in a modern world, reducing intimacy to a recycled, impersonal token amid cosmic indifference.

Philosophically, the poem invites contemplation of existential longing and the limits of the will. Echoes of vitalist thought—positing an impersonal life force animating all matter—surface in the organic metaphors, yet Thomas complicates this by showing how that force can curdle into rage when thwarted. One might draw parallels to Friedrich Nietzsche’s ideas on the Dionysian impulse, where raw passion threatens to overwhelm rational order, or to existentialist notions of absurdity, as the speaker confronts a universe where even the sky “sags” in futility. Freudian undertones are unmistakable: the poem reads as a study in repressed libido and the return of the repressed, with refusal triggering a cascade of subconscious imagery that burns inescapably. Yet Thomas transcends mere case study; his themes universalize the personal, suggesting that all human endeavor grapples with similar anticlimaxes—ambitions unfulfilled, connections severed, selves fragmented behind mirrors of perception.

Comparative analysis illuminates these depths further. Within Thomas’s own body of work, “Not from this anger” shares kinship with “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower,” another early piece that yokes botanical imagery to human mortality and desire, portraying life’s energies as simultaneously creative and destructive. Both poems revel in the body as a site of cosmic drama, yet the anger here feels more acutely interpersonal, less abstract. One might also juxtapose it with T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” where sexual sterility and fragmented relationships mirror cultural barrenness; Thomas, however, infuses his wasteland with a fiercer, more bodily urgency, rejecting Eliot’s ironic detachment for unbridled lament. Surrealist contemporaries like Salvador Dalí or André Breton provide another lens, as the poem’s distorted clocks of emotion and melting boundaries between self and other evoke their dreamlike dislocations—yet Thomas grounds his surrealism in a distinctly Welsh earthiness, making the bizarre feel viscerally real. These comparisons underscore the poem’s originality: it does not merely echo traditions but reshapes them into a singular cry of the heart.

The emotional impact of “Not from this anger” lingers long after the final words, evoking a complex symphony of sensations that poetry alone can orchestrate. Readers often describe an initial jolt of recognition—the poem’s raw depiction of post-rejection fury mirroring universal experiences of desire denied, whether in romance, ambition, or self-worth. There is rage here, certainly, but also a profound melancholy, a sense of cosmic diminishment that tugs at the chest and quickens the pulse. The burning eyes of the close evoke not mere pain but a compulsive witnessing, an inability to look away from one’s own torment, stirring empathy and unease in equal measure. This resonance stems from Thomas’s genius for making the abstract tangibly felt: one feels the weight of the sagging sky, the parched thirst of the lame flower, the muffled toll of the underwater bell. In an age of fleeting digital connections, the poem’s exploration of enduring inner fire offers catharsis, reminding us that vulnerability is not weakness but the forge of authentic humanity. Poetry’s emotional power lies precisely in such moments—when verse becomes a mirror not of vanity but of truth, compelling us to confront what we might otherwise suppress. Enthusiasts return to Thomas precisely for this: his work does not soothe; it awakens, leaving one exhilarated by the sheer vitality of language harnessed to the soul’s deepest stirrings.

Ultimately, “Not from this anger” endures as a masterpiece of emotional alchemy, where personal grievance ascends to mythic proportions. Dylan Thomas, through his singular fusion of the sensual and the surreal, invites us to revel in the messy grandeur of being alive—to acknowledge the anticlimaxes without succumbing to them. In a world still grappling with isolation and unfulfilled longings, this poem stands as a beacon of poetic resilience, its flames not destructive but illuminating. One closes the page not diminished but enriched, hearts aflame with the recognition that great verse, like great passion, transforms even the darkest refusals into sources of enduring light. Herein lies the timeless appeal of Dylan Thomas: he does not merely write poetry; he resurrects the very pulse of existence, urging us to feel it all—the anger, the ache, the awe—with unbridled intensity.