ayres-fair-softly

The yoke uneasy on the ox doth sit
Till by degrees his stubborn neck does bow.
So Love’s opposers do at last submit
And gladly drudge at the accustom’d plough.

Thought:

“Poetry leads to the same place as all forms of eroticism — to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death, and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea.”

Georges Bataille

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