most wretched are cradled into poetry by wrong,
they learn in suffering what they teach in song.
Saturday, 13 September 2008
The walk..
In spring, when woods are getting green, I'll try and tell you what I mean, In summer, when the days are long, Perhaps you'll understand the song, For this must ever be a secret Kept from all the rest between yourself and me.
2 comments:
prosaic..precise..n ..PERFECT!
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