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Potted Pulchritude

What am I but a free moseying soul,
Who has nothing but an irenic goal
Of a paradise beyond measurement
That pleasures me past ad hoc merriment?

After all, a blemished being, my soul,
Does no more than beauty and rapture maul
By descrying crevasses which upon the olden
Trunks of withering bark seen years golden.

Despite this calling yolden, my eyes do
Still bumble like bees in the welkin blue
In search of lucre beneath wizened laves,
And of rancor in worshipped craggy caves.

But all that travailing amounts to naught
When you know that virid touch's all you sought:
An osculation that mullers your scale
And levels your garth with the Holy Grail.

‘Tis the seam of life that nature has sewn
That knits your potted tot to the Swiss loam.
There lies bliss in its green vivacious veins:
Don't quell your obeisance now for famed fanes.
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4/16/2021 6:56:49 PM # 1.0.0.559