by Danny James
I know brother, here little is sincere. The merry atrocities no looking back deserve, – and how precious days decrease. I would you went, and your last look settled upon a lonely rapture that hangs in the vibrant woodlands of your private longing, intimate to thy scope and nature. Hold not ye behind. By all means good, your own valleys go, with what genial faith keeps thee to hills warmer than in thy heart now resides. To each, his own chasm daunts; hesitates the souls investment. May the ravines reveal and the gorges give, than seekest thou infinitely more. I’ll meet you there at the void, whence we all separate and shall after return.