Look what thy memory cannot contain:
And if thy silence yet thy choice uphold,
Then be the sum of argument in vain;
Then let thy rhyming be thy fool-wrought gold.
What claimeth part in mortal weal and woe
Who mocketh those who kneel his grace to seek?
If knowing is foreknowing, doth he know
The darkness of the vengeance he must wreak?
The favour of his cruelty is bright,
And dark the sunlit valley of his glee:
Though still his lyre all thy soul delight,
It speaketh of the sorrow that is thee.
The awful glory of his art enshrin'd
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find.
1 comment:
good work! back on track...Will will be proud!
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