Poets

Rating: 4.8

He nither wrote, nor uttered murmer at wonder
But grew 'pon his rich riegning lofty desire,
And hung the earth, pon each fadeing fancy
Pressing nothing, that he noble can Lyre,
But can afterward use, when beauty
Doth hinder, its pregnant aptonized lore
He sat as an extricable prisoner bound
To essence, that he sought to emancipate
Kept pounding an envil of generation core
And exchanged his soul a thousand ways
At the rate of centuries unfelt round
As though cloud repeats cloud through days
Or nocturnal heavens beaten lights
That mock the day, from suspence of Hights

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