To The Professor
"yet its maker was telling of things already old and weighted with regret, and he expanded his art in making keen that touch upon the heart which sorrows have that are both poignant and remote. If the funeral of Beowulf moved once like the echo of an ancient dirge, far-off and hopeless, it is to us as a memory brought over the hills, an echo of an echo. There is not much poetry in the world like this."
A glass of South African shiraz.
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I’ll sing his roots off. I’ll sing a wind up and blow leaf and branch away.
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