The illustration
is nothing to you without the application.
You lack half wit. You crush all the particles down
into close conformity, and then walk back and forth on them.
Sparkling chips of rock
are crushed down to the level of the parent block.
Were not ‘impersonal judment in aesthetic
matters, a metaphysical impossibility,’ you
might fairly achieve
it. As for butterflies, I can hardly conceive
of one’s attending upon you, but to question
the congruence of the complement is vain, if it exists.
End of the poem
15 random poems
- Dark Matter by Aaron Baker
- In January by Ted Kooser
- Blustering God by Stephen Crane
- Vestiges poem – A. Van Jordan poems
- still the leaves fall… and dream by Steve Troyanovich
- I Call Your Name In My Heart by Samuel Stephen Wakdok
- Blue Period by Shaunna Harper
- A Christmas Ghost Story by Thomas Hardy
- Adam: A Sacred Drama. Act 1. by William Cowper
- In the Valley of Cauteretz poem – Lord Alfred Tennyson poems
- Sonnet 04
- English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 103. The Mountain Spite. Томас Мур.
- Ольга Берггольц – Потеряла я вечером слово
- Grumpy Old Man by Mary Etta Metcalf
- An Answer To A Copy Of Verses Sent Me To Jersey
Some external links:
Duckduckgo.com – the alternative in the US
Quant.com – a search engine from France, and also an alternative, at least for Europe
Yandex – the Russian search engine (it’s probably the best search engine for image searches).
