endymion
typhoid A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagines for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink
000422
...
ashmanzhou he was loved cast aside
like a dead thing yet he wept
and cried unknowing
his face streaked
soul ruined
in the coldest pain he was lost
030630
...
User24 playing with anagrams his dead soul aside,
like he was a loved thing,
unknowing
yet he cried, wept
the coldest face was ruined
pain he lost, in cast and streaked
030630
what's it to you?
who go
blather
from