Louis lost at such a cost. But what be fate? Must I such paltry affection know? Sing a song heaven long and pray for yourself to understand if it is so that I may have to go and die.
For he is gone. My rightful son. I am to cry for spoils a witless gun and rapping out a force will not have me see her machining out my head. On out there like a drawn and incontinent supply-train of clones.
I am done trying. With all that can be taken for people and their lying. Now that a different set of climes is ripe for my good seed to be sown. I’ll get up and make out flyting one day for a way. Gain my bearing as hawksbeak in acquiescence to brave her ungangly sorrows. Like a dovecoat in seeing to some fair wit just by coming into her grace.
And in this my sentiment for her mystery I say bless my young with a want of the simple in things and the deep gratitude of thanks for the rest given. To those looking for the customary in their own acknowledging of somebody’s need for place.
Yes commence unthwarted by entreaties and brave what levity may become your want of a stiffled hilarity unquestioningly and in quiet. Something labored forth and told me to get my butt on down to the riverside. Where there I gained on a despairing cry of rite in want of what was a new and foundling premonition. This time tourilous in some intemperate want of stemming. Some on the strange for its own more than familiar use. And the river, well momentarily I could believe it was coming down the way for real and my love and I were laying beside it peacefully talking before drifting off to sleep. Comfitted in its lapping current and occasional plash.
Personal Writings 