1725 Make this thing without your worth, And empty be; The morning sun that new-sets a world's Fine tracery Is not yours, For its currency has no name. No receptivity as fine In what it perceives Serves your phantom'd sight, That wants what is not there.
10 November 2011
1724
09 November 2011
1723
08 November 2011
1722
06 November 2011
1721
05 November 2011
1720
1719
1718
04 November 2011
1717 Because the wind is high I ache to breathe in the space between What sees and what is seen, As if all time were stopping there, As if an earth were sky That choked fictitious emotion.
