Wheresoe’er I turn my view,
All is strange, yet nothing new;
Endless labour all along,
Endless labour to be wrong;
Phrase that Time has flung away,
Uncouth words in disarray:
Trickt in antique ruff and bonnet,
Ode and elegy and sonnet.
“Only a literalist at loving would expect to plug ahead like the highway people’s line machine, straight over hill and dale, unwavering and ready, in a single stripe of kiss and covering, steady on