basile-night

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.

“So sing that other song I made,
Half anger’d with my happy lot,
The day, when in the chestnut shade
I found the blue Forget-me-not.”

Alfred, Lord Tennyson | “The Miller’s Daughter”