XVIII
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.
Until the next time
Why this Blog?
A place where I can lament the changing times; for eccentric comments on current affairs and for unfashionable views, expressed I hope, in cogent style; also occasional cris de coeur largely concerned, I regret to say, with myself.
Showing posts with label XVIII. Show all posts
Showing posts with label XVIII. Show all posts
Sunday, 28 April 2013
From Persia Again
This time one that I have always found to be a true tear-jerker.
XVIII
XVIII
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