'tis the soul's August,
whose roots are tightly compact'd--
water stagnates and rots the soil.
Nothing seems to pass through it.
In dreamy night air does
it imagine,
a haze of soft rain,
to refresh the hell
of the hot day.
Autumnal glimpses
are found deep within,
deadening the murmuring
below.
And nothing sticks to it,
vanishing up like
morning dew.
And Now For Some Personal Heraldry of Soldiers
-
The next several monuments we are going to visit in York Minster are
erected to the memory of varioius military men.
The first is that of Captain Pelsant ...
4 hours ago
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