::

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. -The Worthily Beloved William Shakespeare

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Misfortune Atones Fantasy

Over churning hapless waters turgid
does furiously tread my servile heart,
lamentable its arduous bargain
does fetter not misfortune to depart.

For what is by the disposition culled
yet the mitigation of tranquil light,
its meager fastidiousness too dulled
to incur its quixotic dreams' full flight.

Had the fantasy less erratic beamed
perchance the earth would have it so esteemed,
Yet does the effusive vagary gush
o'er its own hearth too swiftly does it rush.

No comments:

Post a Comment