Saturday, October 20, 2007

True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.

posted by beckyboo @ 2:32 AM

2 Comments:

At 5:40 PM, Blogger Fergus Cloughley said...

Love this.

 
At 5:42 PM, Blogger Fergus Cloughley said...

Love this.

 

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