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Pope in his grotto
It's clever, but is it art?
(This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.)
 
Pope in his grotto
I do love this poem, but I have no energy to comment on it at the moment. Fortunately, unlike most of the other poems I enjoy, it doesn't really need much commenting on; hence my posting it now rather than something else. I'll make up for it with something very ambitious tomorrow (which, consequently, no one will read... but whatever).
The Eagle
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Fragment

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
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