In the collected, they, leaning against
The tree with more than papal insolence,
Are only too glad to be at that secret military
Work without which they find life wearisome.
These drops of ink on paper only, these are not
A treaty; are the tragique quotidien in this
The tree with more than papal insolence,
Are only too glad to be at that secret military
Work without which they find life wearisome.
These drops of ink on paper only, these are not
A treaty; are the tragique quotidien in this
Delightful country of miserable inquilinos.
In the collected the dead are lying all over
The countryside like so much undergrowth
In the marsh: gas lights flare along the stairs
In the Pavilion cinema. Before you started
These bowers were cursed: your fantastic
Head dress, your crown,
A travesty of fruit and flowers.
The countryside like so much undergrowth
In the marsh: gas lights flare along the stairs
In the Pavilion cinema. Before you started
These bowers were cursed: your fantastic
Head dress, your crown,
A travesty of fruit and flowers.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment