Hypocorism
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A hall of marble, matte; a stair ascends
Into a murdered forest. Then your way
From 1534 to now dead ends
Abruptly while I contemplate the quay
Which would have parted us were ours its day.
Your eye (how painterly transfixed) subtends
Imagination's tarnished s'il-vous-plaît,
Whence time must seem incarnadine to me.
The living ash still in its marbled place
Aeneous fingers lifts, and lief each wends
Upon the Grinling wind, sweet euphony
Of chords; how these subtend that gentle space,
Enchanting miserable Time away
Abruptly while I contemplate the key.
Into a murdered forest. Then your way
From 1534 to now dead ends
Abruptly while I contemplate the quay
Which would have parted us were ours its day.
Your eye (how painterly transfixed) subtends
Imagination's tarnished s'il-vous-plaît,
Whence time must seem incarnadine to me.
The living ash still in its marbled place
Aeneous fingers lifts, and lief each wends
Upon the Grinling wind, sweet euphony
Of chords; how these subtend that gentle space,
Enchanting miserable Time away
Abruptly while I contemplate the key.