A Depressing Thought.

Sad, is it not, to think that when John Keats was my age, he had been dead for 38 years longer than he had lived.

Still, never mind eh?   His name is not forgotten.

 

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About Uisce úr

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
This entry was posted in Life, don't talk to me about life!, Nightmares, Philosophy, Poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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