08-02-2011, 03:13 PM
I am tired of thought, and ardour, and joy,
which only leads to ardour after all. How can a boy
of modest means and frail psychic health
hope to feel a summer's wealth
in his heart and in his mind?
How can a simple rind
of truth render the journey complete,
when 'I'll wake at the call of day'
is more than he can bear to say?
which only leads to ardour after all. How can a boy
of modest means and frail psychic health
hope to feel a summer's wealth
in his heart and in his mind?
How can a simple rind
of truth render the journey complete,
when 'I'll wake at the call of day'
is more than he can bear to say?
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe