Saturday, 22 June 2013

Sceve, the Saone & 'le sujet surpasse le disant'

If I knew the City where now you are
I'd shed my tears in its Reservoir
As it is, I can but sigh
Thy peignoir perilous else skin to dry

 Midons! As blason is, a rough tongue- thy towel
& as to the Saone, that sad Celt eliding vowel
Peace hath a Prince! now, turning away the meek
Mine the lachrymae with no terroir in your cheek.

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