What my men lament, I suppose.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCXCIV)


Lo, how mists shroud the world til aught fr'intents
Quite disappears!  The clustered houses tale
Lost to that fragile whiteness, firs detail
The edge of haunting yonder likeas thence
I knew high in the Rocky Mountains, whence
My soul takes off on that note, like the veil
Hides steeper ledges and ravines, this pale
Eye of thin warmth with puddles in suspense.
An essay on erm, Samuel Johnson fer
Is't thus another angle on just who?
I thought our lit'rature taught us in tour
His name at least.  Perhaps I'm wrong.  He knew
So much tis reckoned better he as twere
Was NOT a lawyer, brilliant.  Is't fog's cue?

06Feb19b