The Ecphorizer
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Now I plunge my pen against the page
and scribble toward a purpose unperceived, for now, in breathful, placid frame, I am no more a poet than a rose; but images I view, although receptive to my bid (my muse is busied elsewhere, nursing other selves), and I desire exercise, enveloped by pleasant melancholy. Enabled to imbue with silhouette of life a bit of pesty matter, from so faint a state as this, I would label it as mine (ostensibly): mine to brag of, mine to burn; but when I feature feeling from the dream it flies from me, like writing on a pond. ![]() |
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