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
- Morning Song by Sylvia Plath
- Sonnet 122: Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain by William Shakespeare
- A CANTICLE TO APOLLO by Robert Herrick
- Омар Хайям – Мне с похмелья лекарство одно принеси
- Let go of your worries by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi
- Disguises by Thomas Edward Brown
- Алексей Жемчужников – Заколдованный месяц
- Омар Хайям – Если гурия страстно целует в уста
- The Fathers by Siegfried Sassoon
- Fist by Philip Levine
- Eclogue:–The Veäiries by William Barnes
- Владимир Бенедиктов – Мелочи жизни
- Robert Burns: Poortith Cauld And Restless Love:
- Robert Burns: Young Jamie, Pride Of A’ The Plain:
- dickinson_and_the_alabaster_gogyohka.html
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).
