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A summer's evening like this one with its
Hundred evenings veneered in every shade
And nuance comes over and is paid
A referential glance that scores no hits,
But has a history that here befits
The moment. With the preciousness inlaid
Of salmon flank, or swifts' woven brocade,
A blank exceptionality that fits
And, as expected, finishes. Oh, what
A charm must bind the phases of each day
That veils the passage, nonetheless revealed,
Of time and circumstance. Without a plot,
Though mostly underneath it move concealed,
And sometimes feels void, there can be no play. |
