The world, according to an accepted expert, is "too much with us." Parse that as you will, it may be poetry just to writes such words.Poetry lives in words grouped and presented like that. Numerous Things exist just by the words that appear. People believe they believe in the true matter of these Things that in multiplicity and panoply contrive as the World. Information about these Things crowds us all the time. Time began as a place to put all those things. The world provides a setting for time. In the parlance, world also exists as an orb, full of features, compellingly louche gravity, and a strong deference towards pumpkin spice. You may have noticed. The heavens look down upon the world and sometimes the windows of heaven open harrowingly. The heavens promulgate the susurration of right thought, or what will serve as such until something more right comes along. You know what you think you know and know what you know you think. The world rolls on, amigos y amigas! Happy trails to you!
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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