#pridepridepride
No, we certainly shall not.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXVII)
O Wordsworth! La, but how his spirit's hale
Pride sifts anon twixt every stanza, whence
My soul congeals, as left like bones from hence
To dry and bleach in heavn's bald eye; joys fail
Whileas he waxes eloquent, to hail
Aught note of twinkling life with that cold sense
Which calculates the breath out of all thence
Caught in his lines, til I can't breathe t'avail.
He takes up passion like's unknown as twere,
Despite the fact he is just that, yet to
A fault upon a bloodless scale, who'd stir
The whitened ashes of aught fire to do
It up as if's a specimen: dead. Poor
As all that, he extolled much...sans life's dew.
10Jul17a
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC