The night is false, sometimes the night is.
Sometimes I let myself be part of it, you see, I am a coward.
We let ourselves into the garden; how grandeur, how want. The lost soft supple abstract.
“The scentless laurel a broad leaf displays, Few and by fewer gather’d are the bays; Yet these Apollo wore upon his brow. The boughs are bare, the stem is twisted now.”
Walter Savage Landor
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