05 March 2007

an early manuscript

each letter curls in its peculiar way
each word is beautiful in its own right
the eye's made happy at the sight
each character has its own proper day
they tempt us all to read and stay
but we must rush ahead of night
for fear of dread and other blight
we've no time for rest and less for play
history does not record these moans
nor does it recall those other signs
of beauty taken far beyond our bearing
the shapes of perfectly carved stones
half-precious fresh from out the mines
and jewels made the better for the wearing

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