I have no patience. Fancy is the feed-worm of the heart. Dear , that pitiful sloth which you call verse, etcetera. The evil path of ecstasy doth never allow. O single censured soul.
Time is the miserable organ of time.
The eternal watchman has his charm. The grasses quickly forget their slaughter, the seasons dressing them brightly as a girl in a cotton dress. They blossom, they leaf, they entice. They gather their limbs for warmth. Each phantom bone reaches into the land's full trap, never wanting again.