Geenstijl

Het is weekend. Was never form and never face / So sweet to SEYD as only grace / Which did not slumber like a stone / But hovered gleaming and was gone. / Beauty chased he everywhere, / In flame, in storm, in clouds of air. / He smote the lake to feed his eye / With the beryl beam of the broken wave; / He flung in pebbles well to hear / The moment's music which they gave. / Oft pealed for him a lofty tone / From nodding pole and belting zone. / He heard a voice none else could hear / From centred and from errant sphere. / The quaking earth did quake in rhyme, / Seas ebbed and flowed in epic chime. / In dens of passion, and pits of wo, / He saw strong Eros struggling through, / To sun the dark and solve the curse, / And beam to the bounds of the universe. / While thus to love he gave his days / In loyal worship, scorning praise, / How spread their lures for him, in vain, / Thieving Ambition and paltering Gain! / He thought it happier to be dead, / To die for Beauty, than live for bread. Prettig weekend. En be nice.