In a canny move, the grey remnants of poet Walt Whitman bought the rights to lilacs. Purple and white with ripe green herbage and a fragrance of abundance, lilacs exist and subsist as subsumed sentiment now. We believe implacable legend has purpose. We try to ignore "O Captain! My Captain!" as the poor marketing transport that it is but lilacs in spring loss fosters something deeper. Whitman knew he needed something deeply riding and present. Lilac skips ahead with a shout and full vernal escapade. Wherever Dooryards gather, there might you see lilacs a-bloom. We can forgive Walt and the crust of his beard. The nation is a bedstead and the cranks have long Lankin dreams. Consumerism called the shots all along, but lilacs stay.
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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