He was a poet and hated the approximate.
He was a poet and hated the approximate.
A Dream In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed- But a waking dream of life…
He trusted neither of them as far as he could spit, and he was a poor spitter, lacking both distance…
Westron wynde, when wilt thou blow, The small raine down can raine. Cryst, if my love were in my armes…