Daffodils appear in jazzy faction. Their music caused the Pleiades to dance, or at least lush rain with Dionysian impact. Or just the yellow gust of immensity in the moment. Whatever clings to savor, let it reign. Daffodils strike their pose in a perfect time and meeting. No gossip, just imbuing. They make hay in the daunting time of time undaunted. Just look to the trees. And after the blossoms wear away, a new flower forms in the hidden bulb. Roots pull impressions and risings from the earth. All daffodil parts are there. Music exists as an internal hum, color becomes the breath of constancy. The new being grows in all its parts, as time will say in natural vocatives. The gleaming state fosters latent resolve. Merrie music seeds the day. And love resides in just that sweep, again the look, the eye, the sounding. Thus and therefore gangs the flower, the very flower of our day.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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